The Secret Origins of Mr Incredible
by Darksoar
Summary: This story is being considered for removal or for a major rewrite. Not sure at the moment...
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer:

Disney and Pixar Studios are the proper owners of the characters from The Incredibles. The rest that I made up belong to my own twisted imagination.

Warning: Contains some swearing.

DarkSoar presents  
An 'The Incredibles' fanfiction  
The Secret Origins of Mr. Incredible

Prologue: The Early Years

August 14, 1919

"Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Parr, you are the proud parents of a brand new baby boy."

Dr. Woolstock smiled, albeit tiredly, as he handed over the toweled baby to the exhausted, but eager mother. It had been a long ten hours, for everyone concerned.

Mrs. Katherine Higgins Parr, gazed in amazement as she cuddled her son_ –her son, she almost couldn't believe _it- lovingly. "Hi there, little Robert Parr, welcome to the family."

Her husband, George, beamed at his son and wife proudly. The brown-haired, five foot twelve inch engineer gently reached out to stroke Robert on the cheek. "Look, honey, he's sleeping. I'd say he's got your hair color and eyes, but he'll be a spitting image of his old man when he gets older," he murmured softly. "He's perfect. I can't believe that we are now officially parents."

A few moments passed with both of the Parrs admiring their newborn child. Dr. Woolstock approached both of them and laid his hand on George's shoulder to get his attention. In a low voice so as not to wake the baby up, he said, "I'll be in my office getting the paperwork ready for you to be signed. But please take your time and come when you're ready. I need a few minutes break myself."

George was barely able to tear his attention away from his son; he squeezed Woolstock's hand in thanks and told him that he'd be there in around twenty minutes. Excusing himself, the good doctor made his way out of the delivery room, leaving the proud parents with their newborn son.

January 23, 1925

Three police cars were parked haphazardly in front of the Parrs residence. Their siren lights flashed mournfully, cycling around and around. Curious neighbors and passerbys huddled in groups behind the yellow police tape. Whispers and mutters flew from person to person, forming all sorts of rumors and wild speculation.

Tears of pain, loss and agony streamed from George's brown eyes as he wallowed silently in his personal hell for the moment. He and a police officer, Lieutenant Nielsen, were in the kitchen. Mustering enough control to speak without shaming himself by bawling and crying, he managed to choke out, "H-have they found the bastard who did this?" Having kept a respectful silence, Lieutenant Nielsen swallowed the lump in his throat and somehow managed to answer the question. "Not yet sir, they're still chasing the suspect who managed to hot-wire your car-"

"I understand. Please tell me when they catch him," George's voice turned ominous and flat, "I want to see the murdering bastard up front for myself."

Nielsen nodded in understanding and acceptance. Although it was not in police regulations to let relatives of the victim come into close contact with the perpetrator of the crime, Nielsen was willing to bend the rule this time. In his twenty years on the force, the Lieutenant knew that facing the murderer would help a little in reducing the enormous feelings of guilt and pain that was no doubt swelling within George Parr.

Walking away, his entire body tensed with soul wrenching pain and rage, George closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall. 'Dammit! Why couldn't it have been me, instead of Kate! Me, it should have been me!' Choking back a sob, the grieving man forced himself not to look in the living room, where a single filled bodybag lay.

Pounding the walls with all of his strength, not even feeling the pain when the flesh ripped off his knuckles, a single thought blazed a despairing trail through his mind.

'What the hell am I gonna tell Bobby?'

June 10, 1930:

"Well, son, near as I can tell, at the rate you're growing, you're gonna be a very big boy when you grow older. It's been my experience that big boys tend to attract attention from other boys the same size as them. Now these kinds of boys are very prideful and who would see any boy their size as a threat."

Bobby's young face crinkled up in worry and confusion, "A threat to what? Why would I be a threat to them?"

George Parr hesitated, then decided it would be best to be blunt. "This will be kind of hard to explain, but a good number of men have a certain way of thinking that tells them to deal with someone who they think would be a threat to their

status. For example, if you spend a number of years collecting a huge number of toys that no one else in town has and they give lots of attention because if that, how would you feel?"

Thinking for a minute, Bobby answered, "Uh, I dunno. Maybe I'd feel good about myself. If I had all those toys that no one else had, I'd feel pretty special, I think."

"Okay, now, how would you take it if a new boy who had just moved in had a larger or similar number of toys? And everyone else stopped paying attention to you and started paying attention to him instead?"

"I guess I'd be angry at the new boy for stealing all the attention away from me." Suddenly his eyes glowed with sudden understanding, "Dad, I see where you're getting at! You're talking about respect, right? It's like in those westerns; the bad guy is a fast draw and kills everyone who tries to go up against him. Then he spots a newcomer who is also a pretty fast draw himself and he doesn't like it so he challenges the newcomer himself!"

Smiling proudly, George nodded, "Yes that's a very good example. You see, these type of boys,

I'm pretty darn sure that they'd try and pick a fight with you, Bobbie. A good number of young men and boys both have a natural urge to be the top of the pack; to be the leader. Some do it by their brains; others lead by example; and there are those who use their strength and size to seize leadership by pushing around those smaller and weaker than themselves."

"You mean bullies, right? Like Michael Thompson across the street? He was a major pain. Before he moved, he loved to pick on me, bother me, and try to push me around just because I was smaller than him."

His father nodded in confirmation. "Yes, like Michael Thompson. However, some of these bullies are worse than the rest. They would use your size as an excuse to try and force a fight with you. I'm not saying that you should always fight with them. Always to try reason with them first; try and lessen their anger as much as you can. As my son, you've always been always able to keep your cool, and I'm really proud of you for being able to do that. Keeping your cool will help a lot if you try to talk to them first."

George was silent for a moment; observing how his son was absorbing his words. Robert looked thoughtful, anxious, afraid, and concerned, but he was still listening.

"However, you'll not be able to talk your way out of all fights. There will times when the bully won't be convinced by anything else besides a fight; and that's when you'll be forced to defend yourself. That's why we're here today."

Sounding a bit fearful now, Bobby reached out to grab his dad's arm for comfort. "W-what should I do when they try and fight with me?"

Clasping his son's slim shoulder with his hand, George reached behind his back with his right arm and brought back into view two pairs of boxing gloves. One pair was adult sized and looked very old, faded with age and patched multiple times. The other looked brand-new, fresh from the wrapping.

"Your old man took up boxing as a hobby and exercise for around ten years. Bobby, what you are going to do is to learn how to properly defend yourself. Now put these on. I'm going to show you the basic punches of boxing; the straight, the jab, the hook, the cross, and then the uppercut. Once you get the hang of those, we'll move on to footwork. When you're ready, then you and I will spar together. What'd ya say, Bobby my boy?"

Tentatively, George's eleven year old son reached out to touch the gloves. He thought back to all those times when he'd run in fright from a threatening Michael Thompson. There were other times when he'd wished that he could help the other, and sometimes younger victims of the older bully. Robert Parr could indeed see the usefulness of learning how to defend himself in this way.

With a small nod of acceptance, young Bobby Parr took the smaller pair of gloves in his hands and began trying to put them on.

"That's my boy. Look at me as I do mine. You got it? Wait, let me pull the ends; there you go. Now, watch me closely as I demonstrate the right and left straight…"

September 9, 1934

High school.

Silently, fifteen year old Bob repeated the two words once again for the fiftieth time ever since he'd woken up. Feelings of discomfort, anxiety, and excitement rampaged through him unchecked. That was what he felt on the inside, but he gave no sign of it on his face; he had long enough mastered the art of putting on a blank expression. Those poker games between him and his dad were at least helped him in something.

At the moment, he was sitting in the passenger seat of his dad's ten year old pickup truck. His dad was driving him to Bernard High School, and it was his first day.

He had never felt so nervous before. No wait, scratch that, he'd felt even more nervous asking Alice Richardson out to the banquet in eighth grade. But still, it was at times like these he'd wished that he wasn't as big or as tall as he was. Sometime in the middle of 7th grade had started a major growth spurt. In the span of one year, he had grown four inches. At the time of the graduation from 8th grade, he stood at 5"11, making him the tallest person in class. Not to mention, one of the skinniest.

Over the summer he had worked hard to remedy that. With his dad's advice, Bob had eaten what felt like tons of extra helpings at every meal, then patted down the resulting extra meat by following a rigid workout schedule. Through sparring sessions with his dad, jogging in the morning and evening, and lifting weights in his room, his thin frame bloomed from 125 lbs to 175.

Bob wasn't afraid of being singled out by his size; his classmates had probably cracked every joke there was about that. It was that the sheer number of people in one school building was a little overwhelming. His old school was relatively small; with only around thirty to fifty students per class. Bernard High School boasted nearly three thousand students, from freshman to senior. Bob shuddered at the thought of being crushed to death by the press of so many bodies in a jam packed hallway. He hoped that today wouldn't find him to suddenly be a claustrophobic.

His thoughts were interrupted by the truck coming to a halt; glancing out the window, he saw the front entrance of Bernard High. A hard lump formed at the bottom of his stomach. 'Oh god, they're people there.'

Robert had preferred walking into the school with no eyewitnesses. Yup, this day was beginning out wonderfully, he thought sourly.

"Well, son, here we are," said George, not noticing that his son looked rather hesitant to exit the vehicle. Whatever else he said was lost to Bob as he turned his full attention to the school. Boys and girls his age and older were chatting in groups, hanging around waiting for their first period bell. When his dad clapped him on the shoulder, Bob smiled weakly and reluctantly opened the door. Getting out of the truck seemed to take more willpower than he thought it would.

After waving at his dad, who took off, Bob suppressed a sudden urge to take off running after the pick-up, screaming 'Wait for me!' Clenching his fists tightly, he finally accepted the fact, however grudgingly, that he might as well get it over with. After all, he couldn't stay outside the school the whole morning.

Ordering his pounding heart to calm down, he shifted his backpack to a more comfortable position and began walking towards the school's entrance.

End Prologue

Author's Notes:  
Just a crazy idea I whipped up.Take note, this fic takes place in analternate universe. Hence, World War I and II didn't happen. This universe is also a bit ahead of our ownin terms of techology and science, like say, abouttwenty five years. Thanks for reading!


	2. The Secret Origins of Mr Incredible Cha...

Disclaimer:

Myself does not claim 'The Incredibles' characters or title for meself. Me never will, so thee can dispense with thy lawyers.

DarkSoar presents

An 'The Incredibles' fanfiction

The Secret Origins of Mr. Incredible

"Freshman Year"

Chapter 1: First Week Blues

When the clock rang, George was already heading towards the timeout puncher. The day was over, and man, was he starving! Maybe he'd stop at Burger Joint, pick up something for him and Bob.

While walking down the hallway to the main lobby, Dan Burton, a long time friend and coworker for several years now, caught up to him. "Hey George, what's the rush?"

"I'm hungry. I think I'm gonna go and get some takeout for me and my boy before heading home."

"I hear ya. Hey, how 'bout it? Poker at my place, seven sharp, you, me, Pete, and Tom?"

George pursed his lips, considering it. It was tempting, and it'd been a while since the four of them had a game. After he punched out, and waited for Danny to do the same, he came to a decision. "All right, Dan, you got yourself a player."

Dan's brown eyes widened in delight, and he grinned. "Great! I've already informed Pete and Tom; you want to bring some beer or should I?" The two men walked out of ACME Engineering's front doors and headed towards the employee parking lot.

With a slight smile touching his lips at his friend's enthusiasm, Bob's father reached out and clapped him on the shoulder. "How about we share the burden?" he suggested. "I'll bring two and you bring two."

Throwing a mock salute at George, the younger man nodded and said, "Sounds good, sounds good. See you in two, all right? Don't forget now!" He gave a short laugh and veered off to the left towards his car. When he reached it and before he got in, he waved at George.

While still walking, George twisted his upper body around and returned the wave. After buckling in and starting the pickup, he reversed out of his parking spot and headed towards the entrance/exit gate.

After merging with the rest of the traffic on the freeway, the burly man took a moment to reflect. It'd been a week since his son had started school. George had initially feared that Bob, who'd been going to a small private school in his elementary years, would have some difficulty in adjusting. But so far, it seemed that Bob had encountered no real problems, and in fact was enjoying himself in his new environment.

At any rate, George wasn't too worried. Before deciding to enroll Bob there, he'd given the school an intense check, going over recently published school newspapers, talking to the principle and to some of the staff. He'd even asked the opinions of friends whose kids were attending the same high school. After tabulating all the research he'd done, Bob's father had come to the conclusion that Bernard High was a decent and respectable enough middle class public school.

Exiting the freeway on Bakerfield, he shrugged his broad shoulders; whatever else, George had few doubts of his son's ability to handle himself. Should something come up that required Bob to defend himself, George knew that his son's boxing would be up to the task. After all, both of them had sparred daily for almost four years now. Bob's boxing was something not to be taken lightly, and the boy himself was smart as a whip.

Yup, he had absolutely nothing to worry about.

* * *

"Son, I'm home! You hungry? I got some good grub for dinner!"

With one hand holding the bags of takeout food, George unlocked and pushed open the door of his home and walked in. Then he stopped right there in the doorway, and stared in surprise at his son.

Bob was sitting down in the living room. That wasn't anything new. But the fact that his son had a black eye, and bruises on his chin, cheeks, and he was holding an ice pack to his mouth.

"Bob, what in the world happened to you?" he exclaimed loudly.

Wincing a bit, his son grinned sheepishly at him. "Well," he began somewhat uncertainly, "I sort of got into a fight."

"Sort of? Looks to me like you were on the receiving end." George shook his head in resignment and stepped into the house, closing the door behind him. Walking past his son towards the dining room, he placed the bags on the table and pulled a chair for himself. Sitting down, he gestured for Bob to do the same. As his son did so, George sighed aloud. He hoped when he was done here, he'd have enough time to shower and head on over to Dan's.

He doubted it. Pushing away the regret and disappointment he felt, George focused on the task at hand. It was his job as a responsible father to get to the bottom of this.

"Okay, son, what happened? I want to hear all of it, from the beginning," the older man emphasized with a serious expression.

Hunching over, nervously twiddling his thumbs, Bob cleared his throat twice. His father waited expectantly, yet patiently. After several false starts, the teenager finally managed to get going.

"Well, it started after lunch period. I was at my locker getting my books when…"

* * *

Four hours earlier, Bernard High School (hallway):

It was one o'clock, and the hallway was crammed with students hurriedly grabbing books from their lockers and heading to their respective first afternoon periods. With so many people hurrying from one end of the hallway to the other, it was a miracle that no one got trampled.

Although he hailed from a small school with a student population of three hundred, it had surprisingly taken Bob only two days to learn how to successfully navigate through such a crowd. He was at his locker, stuffing all the books he needed into his backpack. After he closed his locker's door and zipped up his bag, he turned around to go. As Bob began walking to his next class, which was Algebra 1, he thought that he was pretty darned lucky that so far he'd avoided accidental collisions with other people.

"Watch where you're going, you clumsy idiot!"

Until now, that is.

The person who bumped into him exclaimed in disgust and shot him an angry look as she quickly bent down to retrieve her books. Immediately, the taller boy saw that she must've collided with his back as he stepped away from his locker. Therefore, the impact of his body against hers must have caused her to unintentionally drop them.

'Nice going, Sherlock!' he mentally berated himself.

Chagrined and embarrassed, Bob immediately bent down to help her get her books. "I'm really sorry about that. It's my fault-"

"You bet it's your fault! Don't you ever look where you're going?" The brunette interrupted scathingly.

"I was, uh, looking the other way. Look," Bob said, gingerly placing her books back in her arms, "here you go. Um, it was an accident; I didn't mean to bump into you like that." Adopting his most apologetic expression, he forced himself to meet her wrathful stare. He winced as he noticed that she had blue eyes, which blazed angrily like a laser beam from a comic book. He also noticed that she was quite good looking.

In fact, she was VERY good looking. His interest aroused (in more ways than one), he took a longer look at her. In fact, Bob decided that her anger somehow served to emphasize her attractiveness. A thought made itself known to him, 'I wonder if she has a boyfriend?'

"How long are you going to stand there like some brain dead jock? And quit staring at me, you retard!"

* * *

His father's eyes sparkled with merriment. With an amused smile, he asked, "Robert, were you really staring at her?"

Rolling his eyes, Bob told him, "Yes, dad, didn't I just mention the fact? I must've been staring at her for almost twenty seconds or so." Now, as he looked back upon it, Bob couldn't help but feel embarrassed for doing such an idiotic thing. 'Never again,' he promised himself solemnly.

George laughed, drawing his son's attention, "She was that pretty, huh?"

Bob's face colored and he dropped his eyes to the ground, suddenly finding it incredibly interesting to study. He still couldn't believe that he acted like such an idiot in front of a girl, and an attractive one at that!

A couple of seconds passed before Bob could find his story telling mood again. It helped that he conspicuously avoided looking at his dad, whom he suspected was still grinning at his son's faux pas at being caught off guard like that.

"Ahem, well anyway, someone else showed up and he–"

"The boyfriend?" George interrupted with a question that wasn't really a question.

Nodding in confirmation, Bob said, "And boy, was he pissed."

* * *

Immediately catching on to the fact that he was, indeed, staring quite intently at her, Bob blushed and averted his gaze. He was about to offer yet another apology when a new voice broke into the encounter.

"Hey, you! What the hell are you doing so close to my girl?!"

Hearing the potential for hostility in the new arrival's tone, Bob stiffened up and he took a step backwards.

The new arrival came up to the girl whom had bumped into Bob. With his face turning red, he faced the slightly shorter freshman and said, "Hey, I'm talking to you, chump! I asked you a question; what the hell were you doing so close to my girl?"

Feeling nettled at the other boy's presumptuous arrogance, Bob narrowed his eyes and was about to reply when the girl beat him to it.

Which turned out to be a very bad thing.

"Joe!!" she wailed, startling Bob, "This idiot deliberately bumped into me! I was just walking, minding my own business, and he just came up and hit my arm with his elbow. My books went flying all over the place, and my arm hurts!" As if seeking some comfort, she grasped his muscled arm and huddled close to him.

Mouth going slack in amazement, Bob was speechless. What the heck was she thinking? That wasn't the way it happened! Stunned by this sudden turn of events, he was completely taken off guard as a fierce blow impacted against his chest and sent him staggering backwards. Somehow overcoming his surprise, Bob managed to regain his balance and tried to get a handle on what was happening.

Rubbing at the lingering ache, he scowled in growing anger at the one responsible for the punch. "Hey," he called out, making no effort to hide his ire, "that was uncalled for! What's your problem," Bob paused slightly, recalling the name by which the girlfriend had called him, "Joe? Look I don't want to fight. How about we talk it over?"

Unfortunately, his entreaties went unheeded.

Gently pushing his girlfriend to the side, Joe clenched his hands into fists and answered in a spiteful tone, "Hah! Your side doesn't matter worth spit! There's no way Jenny would lie to me about getting hurt, so what she said must be true! The name's Joe Miller, captain of the Wolverines, and I'm gonna clean your clock!"

"Oh, such flawless reasoning," Bob commented dryly before everyone within earshot who'd heard Joe's last words began whooping in excitement and cleared the way between the two. Eager shouts of "Fight, fight, fight, fight, fight!" rang throughout the hallway.

He tensed up and a cold rush of worry swept through him. Things were quickly getting out of hand. The last thing he wanted was to get into trouble so early in the semester but he didn't think he could convince Joe of the truth. As a matter of fact, Jenny's boyfriend looked pretty mad, and was probably ready to tear Bob into pieces.

Personally, he wasn't afraid of Joe one bit and was confident he could take the hotheaded jock. But he didn't like the thought of being expelled from school after only a week. Not only that, he was apprehensive about having to face his father on

about the same issue. Bob would've liked to sort the mess out peacefully and sensibly, but now it seemed impossible. The overzealous older boy seemed bound and determined to pick a fight with him.

The crowd's raucous yelling wasn't helping things much in that regard. The loud volume seemed to pump up Joe's eagerness and also would drown out any apology Bob would try to make. "Not that he'd be interested in hearing them," Bob muttered bitterly to himself as he kept a steady eye on the other boy, though he didn't make a move to put up any defense.

Bob wanted to do something to put the whole thing on a positive spin, but with all the noise, he couldn't even hear himself think.

The group of students continued shouting and from Bob's perspective, it was kind of disturbing to see how, well, reckless enthusiastic people could get in a situation like this. They only wanted to see some action, something to distract them, if only temporarily, from the dreariness of everyday school life.

George's son was confused when suddenly the volume of the yelling started diminishing. Even more, he saw that the crowd around him and Joe was quickly breaking up; everyone briskly walking to their classes. He looked around and immediately saw why they had done so.

A teacher was slowly making his way towards them. Bob quickly identified him as middle aged, incredibly stern, prematurely gray haired Mr. Stentson, the science teacher. At the moment, he was occupied in telling everybody else to break it up and go to class; he hadn't noticed either of the boys.

Feeling uncomfortable and not knowing what to say, Bob turned his attention back to Jenny's boyfriend. Joe was frowning, as if unhappy that he would be delayed in teaching Bob a lesson in manners. Scowling in anger, he deliberately lifted up his right hand and pointed at the freshman. "Today, after school, at 4:30. Be at the football field. Miss it, and you'll be labeled a chicken until you graduate from this dump! See you there, chump!!"

Having thrown the gauntlet, Joe threw one last angry glare at his future opponent and reached out to grab his girlfriend's hand. As the two of them walked down the hall, Jenny looked back at Bob and smirked in smug self-satisfaction. George's son narrowed his eyes as he pondered her motives for provoking this fight between him and her boyfriend. Then the bell rang, shaking Bob free of his thoughts and enabling him to try and catch his class on time.

Bob had three classes in the afternoon. In each one of them that followed, he didn't pay a single bit of attention to the teacher or any lecture. His mind was otherwise occupied on thinking about his upcoming predicament.

When Joe named the time and place, he had freed Bob from worrying over if he would get caught fighting during school hours. Being intimidated of the other boy wasn't even an issue. Neither was the thought of having to fight with him.

The real question here, Bob decided, was if fighting Joe was worth the trouble it seemed to be or not. That was what needed to be answered.

He thought about it carefully.

* * *

"Well at least you gave it some consideration."

"Well, aren't you happy that all those years of lecturing didn't go to waste? Quiet, I'm coming to the part I like the most. Anyway, later that afternoon…"

* * *

When Joe Miller and two of his teammates, Mike Stillers and Ray Tonan, from Bernard High's football team, the Wolverines, showed up on the appointed field at exactly 4:45, Bob was there waiting.

"You're fifteen minutes late," he called out the minute they were within earshot.

"Sue me," shot back Joe as he shrugged his backpack off and handed it to Mike. In a gentler manner, he took off his Wolverine jacket and gave it to Ray to hold. He stepped away from his two friends and briefly threw a few punches to warm up.

Watching in boredom, Bob patiently waited until his opponent was ready. Joe soon finished what he was doing; cracking his knuckles, he walked to a point fifteen feet away from Bob and put up his fists.

"C'mon chump! I'm dying to teach you a lesson in manners!"

Knowing that it was futile, Bob responded anyway, "I'm telling you, your girlfriend is lying about the whole thing!" Seeing that it didn't lessen Joe's aggression any, he quickly changed tactics.

"Well, I guess that's why she picked you for her boyfriend. You're too dull witted to even begin to catch a glimpse of what she's doing to you, namely, manipulating you right in front of your eyes! Why don't you dump Jenny for a retard? At least that way, you'll be able to keep up, in terms of intelligence, that is!"

His insults did their job. Joe's face turned red with renewed anger, and with a wrathful roar he dashed towards Parr and started pounding away relentlessly. Bob was being hit as each punch connected, without a chance to try and block.

At least, that's what Miller wanted to do. What really happened was quite a different story.

Jenny's six feet, 185 lb. boyfriend had been the captain of the Wolverines for all three years he'd been at Bernard High. His body build had been assisted in great deal by routine weight lifting. He was also stronger, tougher, and meaner than anyone else in school. Miller was no stranger to fighting; he'd done more than his share during his grade school years. He'd held it as a personal accomplishment that he'd never been beaten in a fist fight.

Now as he looked at this Parr jerk, who wouldn't even apologize to his girl, HIS GIRL, properly, his anger blossomed rapidly. Although the freshman was almost a match for him in size, Miller was confident that he could take him down without any problems.

So it was with such confidence that he brought his fists up to chin level and came in fast and hard. Feinting with his left twice, Joe suddenly drove his right towards Parr's face, intent on striking the freshman's jaw.

He didn't remember much after that.

* * *

Bob's father laughed in amusement as he slapped his knee. "Only three punches and he went down?"

Thinking back on the incident, his son allowed himself a proud smile and a feeling of satisfaction. He got up and demonstrated his actions. "What can I say? I blocked his punch, hit his stomach with my right, treated the left side of his jaw with a left roundhouse and smashed the right side with a one of my stronger right hooks. The guy had a glass jaw, and besides, he was no match for me," he bragged proudly.

"Then how do you explain the bruises?"

His face fell and some of his boastful attitude instantly collapsed. Wincing a little as he gingerly fingered said swellings, Bob replied, "Well, his friends weren't too happy about what I did, so…"

* * *

"Get him!!"

After spending nearly five seconds of gazing in stupefied amazement at their unconscious captain, Joe's two friends decided to take it upon themselves to enact vengeance upon this Robert Parr. Stiller, a short, but stocky guy, started forward hurriedly, while Tonan, a taller, thinner yet clearly well muscled, did a slower, relaxed pace.

Bob shifted to a favored boxing stance; his left fist held out, his right arm tucked close in to his chest with the fist near his chin. He waited calmly, his eyes catching every movement made by the duo before him. Stiller arrived first, alternating right and left jabs, trying to land a successful blow. Seeing this, Bob sidestepped to the left, which meant half of the shorter boy's punches fell short. The other half were deflected with little effort by Bob's outstretched fist.

Knowing that he had to quickly do some damage before Tonan caught up, Bob stepped in closer twice. The first was with his left foot, while simultaneously blocking a jab. The second part, consisting of the right foot moving in a split second later, caught Stiller off guard. A right straight flashed out and caught him square on the chin. The force of the impact knocked his head back and the strength behind the punch stunned him temporarily. With his left leg coming up level with it's right counterpart, Bob immediately followed up with a hard, low left hook to the kidneys, a blow to the stomach next, and then a uppercut that sent his shorter opponent tumbling to the ground, barely conscious.

Suddenly, a fierce blow struck Bob at the back of his head. Groaning and stunned, he instantly suspected that Tonan had somehow gotten behind him while he was occupied with Stiller. A sudden surge of anger ignited within him; it wasn't enough being unjustly setup by Jenny; it wasn't enough that he had to fight an enraged Joe; it wasn't enough he outnumbered; now it turns out this skinny, cowardly weasel attacks him from behind? Enough was enough!

Somehow shoving the pain away in a place where he couldn't feel it, Bob wheeled around with his guard up. He was a fraction of a second too slow. A roundhouse punch appeared out of nowhere and smashed his left cheek. His head flew sideways due to the impact; out of the corner of his eye, Bob caught sight of Tonan's fist heading for his stomach. Reacting quickly, he hardened his abdominal muscles an instant before the blow struck. His eyes watered a bit as he registered the pain, but he preferred pain rather than having the air knocked out of him.

Obviously feeling that his punch failed to accomplish what he'd wanted it to, Tonan pushed his attack. Lashing out with a left hook, he connected on Bob's jawbone, then scored again with a hit over his right eye, breaking the skin and starting a flow of blood. Now feeling good about the outcome, Ray threw a roundhouse right, connecting on the jawbone.

Recovering from the effects of the assault far faster than Tonan expected, Bob's fury exploded. Quickly ducking a high left hook, his rage led into an underarm blow, smashing into the solar plexus. He straightened and sent a right, then left cross, marking both of Tonan's cheek, one after the other. "That's payback for mine," he growled. Far from being satisfied, he pounded Ray's body with a series of sharp, powerful jabs, starting from the abdomen and going up from there. Relentlessly sending a right-left straight combination thudding into his chest, Bob snapped an impromptu punch to catch Tonan squarely in the face.

He felt bones crunch and blood squirt onto his knuckles and knew he'd broken the Wolverine member's nose. Bob didn't care; Tonan knew what he was getting into when he joined the fight.

Now, Ray Tonan staggered backwards, his hands automatically going to his face. "You broke my nose, you idiot," he sputtered confused, angered, and pained all at the same time. "Too bad!" replied Bob, closing the distance between them, eager to finish him off.

And finish him off Bob did. With Ray momentarily disoriented by the agony from his nose, his opponent had a very good opportunity at hand. Deciding to use his favorite combination of blows to end it, Bob launched into action. By the time he was done, Tonan was tottering to and fro, ripe for picking. With one last, fierce roundhouse, Bob successfully laid him out on the field. Before he could double check and see whether the football player was unconscious or not, a voice suddenly cracked loudly from somewhere behind him.

"Yo blondie, watch your back! Pronto!"

Reacting instinctively, Bob whirled around and tightened his guard, ready to dish out more punishment. He caught a fleeting glimpse of an African American guy about his age in the bleachers, then his eyes snapped onto a revived Stillers.

Scowling because his ploy to ambush Bob from behind had been spoiled, the stocky Wolverine twisted his upper body around and pointed at the intruder threateningly. "You little creep! I'm gonna get you for this, you can be sure of that!"

The newcomer simply shrugged nonchalantly and said, "Whatever, fool. If I were you, I'd turn around right now!"

Realizing that he still had an adversary to contend with, Stillers did turn as the newcomer suggested.

The first thing he saw as he did so was a large fist filling his view. A couple of jabs, two crosses, three straights and a quartet of hearty roundhouses later, Stillers was in no condition to see anything else anymore.

Standing wearily and ultimately victorious above the unconscious Wolverine, Bob spat a stream of blood on the ground. "Pathetic," he muttered, "three against one and this is the best they could do? Hmmph, that'll teach them to mess with me!" Nursing his knuckles, he turned around and began walking away.

The person who'd warned him about Stillers was sauntering down the stairs, a look of amazement on his handsome lean face. As he reached field level and got closer, Bob got better look at him.

He was above average height, around 5"10 or so, and lean, but Bob sensed a decent musculature residing in that lanky frame. Wearing black slacks and a dark blue sweater, he had the popular afro hairstyle, though it's size was more moderate than most others Bob had seen.

"Hey bro, how da hell did ya do that? Three of those suckers against yo' lone ass; and ya still manage to come out as top dog! Incredible man, just plain incredible!"

Bob asked him the first thing that came to mind, "Who in the world are you?"

The newcomer smiled, showing his white sparkly teeth. Placing his left hand on his hip, and pointing to himself with his right thumb, he said, "The name's Lucius. Lucius Best, at yo' service."

End Chapter 1

Author's Notes:

Whew, finally done with Chapter 1! That was a tough one, I can tell you. I loved writing the fight scene, hehe, and consumed hours of editing, rewriting, and checking to get it where I deemed it satisfactory.

A couple of things that I'll make clear here. The supers do exist in this time period, but not all of them are highly regarded in society. A good portion of the population don't trust them and would like to see them blotted out of existence. Also, although the year is 1934, the technology and the general lifestyle in that world is equivalent to that existing during the late 1950's to early 1960's of our own, although I think I'll omit some of the darker aspects of the events that happened in that time period. Difference of alternate dimensions and all that.

Well, hopeyou enjoyed reading it more than I did writing it (smiley face here). Please review and criticize. I really love to read feedback and am willing to receive anything to improve my writing. Thanks, and see you in Chapter two!


	3. The Secret Origins of Mr Incredible Chap...

Disclaimer:

Bob Parr and Lucius Best both belong to Pixar Studios. The rest belong to me Insert maniacal bad guy laughter here

DarkSoar presents

An 'The Incredibles' fanfiction

The Secret Origins of Mr. Incredible

"Freshman Year"

Chapter 2: The Weekend Before

"The name's Lucius. Lucius Best, at yo' service. And damn, bro, I've ta say that yo' gotta be THEE toughest blondie that I've ever seen in moi life"

Bob smiled. Whoever this guy was, he proved that he wasn't with those three idiots with his timely warning. Tipping his head in a short nod, the bigger boy said, "Hey, I've got to say thanks for warning me about that guy behind me. I would've been taken by surprise for the second time in the fight and came out with a whole lot more bruises, probably worse."

"But I'd betcha a million yo'd still whup some major ass, " Lucius pointed out.

Bob shrugged, then wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth. "It's possible, yeah, but I'd like to win with all my teeth intact. As it is, my face is gonna look like hell by tomorrow, if not by tonight." Then he blinked, suddenly remembering something he'd forgotten to do. "Oh, damn, sorry." Bob stretched out his right hand towards Lucius.

"Bob Parr. Good to meet you. By the way, what are you doing here? Not that I'm complaining mind you, but I'm just curious."

Lucius pumped his hand enthusiastically. "Hey bro, 'sall good. I was just a passin' by earlier when I spotted dat clown Miller and ya havin' an old Western style showdown. Caught ole Lucius's interest, I can tell ya that! I couldn't help but catch some of dat fat the two of ya were chewin' before old Stiffy came up. When my last class ended, I was a really itchin' to have me a looksie. Me an' Miller and his pack o' clowns don't see eye ta eye at all, so yours truly wanted to see what'cha really made of. Damned glad I did, too! Damned glad!"

"I think I see. Wait a second, who's 'old Stiffy'?"

Lucius laughed, "Mr. Stentsons, man! Bro, the reason I stick 'em with that nick' is cuz that ol' geezer is too damn stiff; meaning he ain't too keen on relaxin' when it comes ta relatin' between students and regs. Ya dig?"

Bob had some trouble following Lucius, but he managed to get the general gist. "Yeah, that's about right. He bores me to tears in Physics," he chuckled a bit at that and Lucius joined him. Then a sudden thought grabbed him. "Wait, if I recall correctly, there were a group of students around me and Joe, all in hearing range. So how come only you showed up? I thought, after seeing everyone else's reaction in the hallway, more people would show up to watch."

Unfortunately, the other boy had no answers for him. "Sorry bro, but I got no idea. Could be that they all had more better stuff ta do? I saw no hair, no hide of anyone else, just little old' me."

His brows furrowing, Bob dwelled upon it for a moment, then dismissed it as unimportant as a more urgent matter revealed itself. He winced and groaned a bit as he felt the bruises he'd received from Tonan. Making a decision right then and there, he said, "Hey Lucius, it was great meeting you, but I've got to get going. My face hurts like you wouldn't believe and I need some ice to put on it, as soon as possible."

He was about to step away, then stopped to ask a sudden question. "Before I leave, however, I'm curious. Who the hell are these two losers who showed up with Mr. Wolverine Captain here?"

The afro hair styled teen answered, "These two boneheads are Mike Stillers and Ray Tonan, of the Wolverines. They don't play square most of the time, you catch my drift? Ol' glass jaw here," he pointed at Millers, "considers them his best buddies, which goes to show that 'birds of a feather flock together."

Bob smirked at hearing that, but winced immediately after feeling the pain from his injuries rise anew. Deciding that he really wanted something cool to place on his injuries, he said, "Isn't that true. Well, I guess I'll be going then. So, I don't know if I'll see you tomorrow, with my face looking like street pizza, but I'll do if I do, all right?"

Looking at the bigger boy's multiple welts, Lucius couldn't argue. "Hey bro, I gotcha. I gotta get goin' myself. I'll catch ya tomorrow, 'kay? Chillz." He shook Bob's hand again, turned, and started walking away. He'd only taken four steps when he suddenly turned around and said, "Yo Rob m' man, I almost forgot. If ya do manage to come tomaraw, be sure ta watch yer back; Miller's other footballsie goons'll prob'ly want some payback or sumthin', ya dig?"

* * *

"And that's it. That's how it ended, Dad."

Bob Parr sat back in his chair, shoulders hunched, and began to chew his lip, but immediately rejected the idea when pain blossomed from the bruised and bleeding corner. Nervously, he anxiously awaited whatever his dad had to say.

George didn't disappoint him. "So," he drawled, "you and that Lucius Best kid hit it off pretty well, huh? What did you do after that?"

Relaxing a bit, though still tense, Bob had to form his word with great care; the results from the fight on his face were beginning to make him aware of their existence. "Well not much. I hightailed it home as fast as I could. I desperately needed ice for my bruises."

Taking a look at his son's face, George commented, "You know, it's a good thing tomorrow's Friday. Since I have a suspicion that you'll refuse to go to school tomorrow with a face like that, I'll guess I'll have to write you a note so you can give it to the principal on Monday. Hopefully, the swelling will go down enough so you won't look like something the cat dragged in by then."

When Bob thought his dad wasn't going to say anything else, he was proved wrong. His father showed that he was more perceptive than Bob gave him credit for when he said, "Oh yeah, that's not just it, isn't it? You've been almost frantic with worry on how to deal with the rest of the football team ever since you first came home."

At Bob's surprised look, his dad grinned in amusement. "C'mon Robert, give me some credit, will you? I'm your father; that means I know a good deal of how you think and act. Although I must admit…" he trailed off, not sure how to best say what he wanted.

The fifteen year old gave George an curious and inquisitive look. "What is it, Dad?" he asked gingerly.

George measured his son, gauging what his most likely response would be, then decided to go ahead anyway. "Bob, I'm not saying that you shouldn't have fought that Miller kid. Matter of fact, I'm proud that you managed to win despite being outnumbered. And I'm also glad you took the time to think your options over. But honestly tell me, you never thought of the fact that the football team might take a dim view of their leader getting beat up?"

Althought it wasn't mean to do so, the question raised Bob's hackles. "No, I didn't," he retorted defensively, momentarily forgetting his condition. The sudden movement of his mouth reminded him. Taking care to speak softer and form the words with more care, but with enough volume to be heard, he continued, "Geez dad, I had too much on my mind at the time. Besides getting adjusted to the atmosphere of that new school, I was busy thinking of the possible consequences if I didn't accept that challenge."

"Consequences?"

Bob was now exasperated; it was so obvious, why couldn't his father see it? Speaking slowly and emphasizing every word as if speaking to a small child (and also not to antagonize his bruised mouth and jaw), Bob said, "C'mon dad, if I didn't show up there, then Miller and his friends would tell everyone that I'm a chicken, and that I was too scared to fight him one on one! Now as it is, I can go around telling people that I beat three of the football team members, singlehandedly! That'll make the rest of the football team think twice before even trying to pick a fight with me."

With a dry grin, George said sarcastically, "Okay, Iet me see if I understand your logic all right. Instead of being called chicken by the entire school, you'd rather suffer the distinct possibility of revenge by the whole football team, for as long as you attend that school."

"Quit that, dad!" Bob snapped, then immediately regretted speaking so rapidly. When would he ever learn? Talking fast equals more pain. "You're not helping me at all," he finished in a more normal tone.

George frowned in disapproval at his son. "Watch your tone, Robert." He waited a few seconds then went on, "Okay then, if you want me to help, then I will. Regarding your fight, you were careless and sloppy."

His son blinked in confusion, his earlier irritation gone. "Careless? Sloppy? What are you talking about? I made sure that all my straights, jabs, and the other types of punches were striking at the correct angles for maximum impact, just like you taught me! My technique was as good as it normally is. I mean, I went over the fight, reviewing everything I did, and I didn't see anything where I would've did something else.""

"I'm not talking about your technique or your punches! Robert, I'm talking about your situational awareness!"

Puzzled, Bob asked, "Situational awareness?"

With a completely solemn look on his face, the older man narrowed his eyes and regarded Bob intently. "I mean while your ability to focus on more than one thing! I'm talking about your lack of experience while fighting multiple opponents! Robert, I'm dead serious when I tell you this, if those two were experienced in any kind of boxing, then you would've gotten really hurt, or worse! You left your back open!"

Although Bob had initially felt relieved when his dad revealed that, rather being upset at Bob for fighting, George was annoyed at his son's performance in the fight itself. Now, however, the teenager was getting irritated himself. Crossing his arms over his chest, he regarded his father with a chilly stare.

Bristling with indignation, Bob said, "Well, is it any fault of mine? You," he emphasized the word, "never taught me how to handle multiple opponents or how to increase this 'so-called situational awareness'."

George was about to unleash another scathing rebuke when Bob's answer caught him off guard. His mood changed from a parental disappointment to deflated sort of chagrin. Grimacing, he took a moment to change what he was to originally say. "You have a point there Bob," he allowed. Heaving a sigh and swallowing his pride, he said "That's true; I never taught you how to handle multiple opponents or how to manage your situational awareness. I'm, uh, sorry for getting on your case for something I never taught you."

Feeling smug and victorious (it wasn't every day that he managed to win a point in an argument with his dad), Bob smirked and crossed his arms over his chest. "So, what are you going to do about it?" he asked. "I didn't like the feeling of being attacked from behind."

"I'm sure you didn't," George grinned. A sudden idea came to him, and he abruptly said, "Robert! Come on, we're going to garage. Someone's got to show you the mistakes you made, and how best to rectify them. Let's go now!" With more verbal prodding, Bob finally gave in to George's demands, although he remained a little touchy about the whole thing.

* * *

The minute Bob straggled inside the garage, he was forced to catch his gloves as his father threw them at him. "Quit dragging your feet, Robert! There's a poker game I really want to go to at seven! That only gives us an hour, so now, hurry up and put them on. I want to show you something."

The garage was quite spacious, about forty five feet by thirty five feet, and it was divided into two portions. The floor was a bare gray, while the walls and ceiling were painted white. The left half was for the old red pickup and also served as a storage for George's maintenance and work tools, which were hung or stored on shelves and hooks attached to the wall. Light came from two long bulbs, one in each half.

However, the right half of the garage was Bob's favorite place in the entire house. A homemade boxing ring, George's pride and joy, took up the majority of the space. At the height of three feet, and with the dimensions of sixteen feet by sixteen feet, the frame of the platform was made of scrap metal taken from the junkyard. As they were serving as support for the platform, the four round corner posts were made of better quality metal, taken from a warehouse that had some excess stock that the owners had no room for. At fifty eight inches in height, their turn buckles were covered with almost thirty five layers of thick cloth.

Four lines of one inch thick clothesline rope were securely fastened on to the posts by drilled holes and eye hooks. The lowest rope was eighteen inches above the ring floor, the highest was fifty four, and the other two between them were evenly spaced. The platform floor was completely covered with foam padding, which was in turn covered by canvas, both of which George had ordered through a boxing store he was familiar with.

George had started construction of the ring when Bob was eleven. He'd wanted to use it for his daily exercise and to keep fit. It'd been finished about six months ago and had been used practically every night by the both of them. Behind the ring, alongside the rear wall, and attached to the ceiling was the speed bag, which was a small punching bag used by boxers to improve hand speed and hand-eye coordination. Six feet away down the wall was the heavy bag, which was used to practice combinations on and improve targeting areas of an opponent. Five feet away from that was a single closet which housed the boxing gloves, focus pads, headgear, skipping rope, mouth pieces, heavy bag gloves, and the bell, which acted as a timer when wound up for a certain duration.

After he finished putting on the gloves, Bob walked up to his father, who was standing in front of the heavy bag. "All right dad, we're here. Now show me how to correct my mistakes."

George replied, "Back in my college days when I was still learning how to box, I had a good number of close friends. Many of them weren't American, or even had a Western background. I probably had the most diverse group of friends who hailed from practically every corner of the globe. We had other things in common, but the major moving force for the reason for our association with each other was that we loved to box."

"One of my favorite sparring partners was this guy from Thailand named Lang. Tall, black hair, darkly tanned, all lean and hardened muscle. Anyway, he was incredible in the ring; I'd be lucky if I could land at least three solid hits per round. After we came to know each other better, I soon got to get to talk with him. It turned out that he had a very tough childhood, getting into lots of fights, at least three to five times a week. Due to that, as he grew older, Lang became an expert at street fighting. About five years before arriving in the States for college, he told me that he mastered Muay Thai. After that, he combined his Muay Thai and his street fighting skills and eventually became the champion for his age group in the national tournament."

Bob broke in, asking, "What's Mua, err… Mai…umm… Mouu Thigh?"

His father hesitated for a moment, calling up old memories. "Not Mouu Thigh. _Muay Thai_," he corrected. Continuing on, he said, "It's the Thailand home grown version of Western boxing. The locals in Thailand call it Muay Thai, but it's generally known to foreigners as kick boxing. Specifically speaking, a Muay Thai practioner and an American boxer have the punches in common; the hook, the jab, the uppercut, and so on and so forth. But there's a big difference between the two. As you can guess by the name of 'kick boxing,' Muay Thai involves the use of kicks, knee strikes, and also elbows when fighting."

Trying hard to visualize this new fighting art he was now hearing about, Bob didn't have an easy time of it. From all of his experience in boxing, he'd grown accustomed to only his hands being used in a fight. Something as foreign as this Muay Thai sounded very interesting, in a strange sort of way.

"I had several opportunities to watch Lang practice on the bags, and I tell you, the strength and speed of his legs were nothing short of extraordinary. He was quite something to watch; I could easily see how he became the champion of his age group back in Thailand. I was really interested in learning this Muay Thai and asked him several times if he would show me a few things; unfortunately, however, he said that he didn't have that much free time to teach. I think he was a double major or something. But luckily for me, once every so often there would be weekends and semester breaks when he would be free. That was then he would indeed show me a few things. He added a couple of new punches and attacks that's not standard in Western boxing to my arsenal. I believe that one of them, I think, is just the thing for you."

Taking a stance before the punching bag, he said, "Now this new punch I'm gonna teach you is intended to be used as a powerful follow up, after you've weakened your opponent's guard enough. It's usually made up of two parts; the first strike blows through the guard and leaves your opponent momentarily open. The second part, which you should execute immediately after the first, is the real heavy hitter that'll do the most damage. Your opponent should be knocked to the ground after you finish the second part. A bonus effect is that you'll be able to catch a quick glimpse of who or what's around you."

"You can start with either your left or right foot forward, which ever is your strong side. Your aim is to target the temple, jaw, ear, or even the nose; use your best judgement, whatever the situation calls for it. Pay attention, I don't have all night." George smirked, "I still have a poker game at Dan's to attend, so you'd better catch on quick. Now, watch closely! I want you to practice it slowly when I'm at Dan's, okay? You should have this under your belt when Monday comes."

The night went on as the father continued teaching the son into the early hours of the evening.

* * *

Friday morning.

Bob and George woke up at 5:00 to do their daily morning run. Usually they did three loops around their neighborhood; depending on the weather and other circumstances, it took them around an hour, give or take fifteen minutes. Once they finished, after a cooling down period, they had another hour in which they usually sparred together.

It was their favorite time spent together, and they'd been doing it for about four years now. They'd always wore all the necessities; protective headgear, mouth pieces, and gloves. George didn't stick to a set routine as it wasn't 'educational enough', as he put it. Instead, George focused on polishing Bob's technique and timing. Sometimes he would only be on defense, giving Bob a limited amount of time to try and land a certain number of solid hits. Then he would test Bob's defensive reactions and their roles would be reversed. Or other times they would do something different.

This morning, due to Bob's condition, George was allowing Bob to attack him and see if he could manage to successfully use the new move George had taught him last night. They also forewent the use of head gear, as wearing such would obviously cause pain to Bob.

In a guarding stance with his outer forearms protecting his chest up to his lower chin, the older man skillfully blocked every punch his son threw. "C'mon," he urged, "remember you've got to open up your opponent's defenses first before you can use it. I'd suggest a hook to the jawline, or an uppercut. But all of it will mean nothing if you don't locate a potential weak point in order to exploit!"

Feeling frustrated, Bob exploded into a flurry of punches. Like before, they were all ineffective. Exhaling, he tried again, going for a high-low-high-high-low combination, with the same result. This time was different because George had thrown a right straight into his chest. Bob staggered back two steps, surprised by the unexpected attack.

"Your best defense is a good offense!" his father yelled. "But that doesn't mean leaving yourself wide open to a counterattack! No matter how angry or frustrated you get, always, ALWAYS keep your punches as tight and compact as you can! Leave the smallest holes you can; better yet, leave no holes at all!"

"Is that even possible? Leaving no holes at all?" Panting, Bob circled around his father, looking for a better angle of attack. However, George made that difficult by matching his son's footwork. "Anything is possible," he told Bob, "those who say otherwise are just too damn lazy or too damn defeatist. It's all how deter—oof!"

Bob had just landed his first successful blow, a left hook, to the side of his dad's face. Chortling in proud amusement, he said, "Dad, haven't you said that talking in a fight distracts your attention too much? Looks like you broke your own rule! Shame, shame, shame!"

"Guess I did." George suddenly broke out of his defensive posture and started delivering a series of fast body blows to his son. He wasn't getting revenge for that one hit, oh no. Rather, he was just testing his son's attentiveness during a fight.

The older man was rather pleased when Bob, seemingly distracted by scolding his father, wasn't caught off guard this time. His son was a fast learner, and so didn't make mistakes twice in a row. He proved this by setting his forearms in front of his body, shifting his body weight when necessary and furiously but successfully blocking every blow George threw.

"Excellent!" George crowed. "Now you're fighting with your head! We'll make a pro outta you yet!"

Wincing at his dad's heavy blows, Bob backed up two steps in order to rethink his strategy. However, it was at that moment when the bell, which he had set for forty minutes, rang, signifying the end of the spar.

Bob huffed in frustration. He'd never gotten a chance to practice that Muay Thai move; his dad's defense was just too good. Simply put, he couldn't blast his way through or around them. For a fifty year old, he sure had a lot of energy, dancing around the ring like a man half his age. Not for the first time, he wondered why his father hadn't entered the professional boxing world.

George called to him, freeing him of his thoughts. "Hey, I'm going to shower now. Since you'll be taking the day off from school, I want you to do me some favors around the house."

"Aw, c'mon dad! I want to practice that move and perfect it before Monday hits!" Bob wasn't lazy, but he preferred not to do extra chores around the house if he could help it. Besides, he'd rather do boxing instead.

His father fixed him with a stern look that Bob knew quite well. It was his "do-what-I-told-you-to-do-or-else" look. Fortunately for his own sake, Bob knew from experience that he would do well and follow his dad's orders.

And who knows? Maybe later he would get revenge by finally breaking through his dad's defenses.

Later that night, he still wasn't able to. On the other hand, he'd managed to execute that new move successfully for the first time, even though his dad blocked it.

* * *

On Saturday morning, the two of them discussed what to do about the very possible reactions of the football team. George had once again regaled Bob about his experiences of high school pranks he'd pulled and those he'd suffered. Needless to say, it didn't make Bob feel any better about the certain confrontation on Monday. It did, however, give him a better idea of what to expect from them.

Another advice that George had for his son was to report to the principal once the pranks had been pulled, but Bob rejected that idea. Reporting to a higher authority in the school hierarchy was at the bottom of the list, as the 'last thing to consider when everything else failed'. An hour later, he sat alone in the living room, thinking hard of a feasible answer.

'_Transfer to another school.' _He discarded it as soon as he thought about it. It was way too early in the semester to do that. Besides, he didn't like running away.

'_Avoid going to school for another week in order for things to calm down.' _He snorted in contempt; that idea was just plain stupid. Waiting would only delay the inevitable and he had a feeling that the rest of the Wolverines wouldn't forget about their teammates being beat up for a long time to come.

'_Drop out of school entirely and work at a fast food joint.' _Definitely an impossibility; his dad would kill him.

'_Take them on headlong.' _Gutsy, but incredibly suicidal. Good as he was in boxing, there was absolutely, positively no way he could last even five seconds against all of them.

Maybe he was going about this the wrong way. Maybe he was just worrying too much about what MIGHT could happen. Maybe Joe had taken his beating like a man and now called it even, the result of a 'fair fight'.

Bob sighed again. Yeah right, and maybe cows would fly.

* * *

Sunday morning passed relatively quickly. Bob used up the time to do his chores around the house, spar with his dad a little, and began to dread the advent of Monday. George had done his best to lighten his son's dark mood by offering to go himself and talk with the principal.

Bob had appreciated the offer, but he was adamant; he had gotten himself into this, and he would resolve it himself. His father reluctantly let the matter dropped, but at first extracted a firm promise from his son that the very first thing he would do would be to give the principal a visit and tell him everything. Bob had every intention of doing that; but first he wanted to face down the Wolverines and find out if they had something with him.

With a plan of action, Bob found it easier to go about his day. Having a decision, however reluctant, made, he spent the rest of Sunday in a strenuous workout in the garage. An hour and half later of jump rope and bag work, while he was sitting outside and cooling off, his next door neighbor Anne Wards came by.

At 5"7, smooth golden brown hair tied back in mid shoulder length ponytail and with clear blue eyes and slightly rounded cheeks, she was quite attractive. Of course, she had been for a while; Bob wasn't blind, and over the years he'd taken gradual notice of her. They'd known each other for centuries, it seemed. Having attended the same elementary school for all eight years as classmates had eventually forged the bonds of friendship between them. Oh, of course there were the odd, uncomfortable moments when hormones made their presence known during a short close moment when it was only the two of them together. But nothing really serious had happened, only the occasional teasing, only the brief flirtation. It seemed to Bob that the two of them had reached an unspoken, mutual understanding; they were friends, really good ones, and they shouldn't do anything to endanger what they've built up over the years.

There were times, many times, when Bob had questioned that, and he couldn't help the irrational surge of jealousy whenever he saw her talking to or as was the case most often, _dating _another boy. But, he respected that she was free to make her choices, and besides, what hold, aside from being her best male friend, did he have on her anyways? So during those times when he got angry, he went to the garage and worked it out on the bags. To his ever lasting disgruntlement, his father would look in, instantly discern the source of his ferocity, and laugh heartily.

Bob was well aware that other boys, would they be in his position, wouldn't hesitate at all in trying to get with a 'hot fox' like her in no time flat. However, he was cast from a different mold; even at the moldable years of adolescence, Bob would not cause harm to anyone else, if he couldn't help it. Especially to someone who held a special place in his heart.

Even if she didn't know it.

Now the girl who held such a special place in his heart stood in front of him with a unhappy expression on her face, arms cocked on her hips and glowering at him. At that moment, Bob knew she was upset over something he'd done. Realization quickly washed over him and he said, "It's nothing, really, you should see the other guy." He motioned weakly towards his bruises, which were fading away but still visible to be seen up close.

It was the wrong thing to say, especially to a concerned Anne Wards. She let him know that she was not amused by his efforts to make light of his wounds, healing though they were. "I thought you said that you would avoid fighting, Robert."

_Uh oh, she's using my full name. She's really upset this time._ "I did, Anne, I really tried not too. But I had no choice – I was forced into it!"

She raised an eyebrow, looking at him suspiciously. "Let me guess, they took your clothes away while you were in the shower and threatened to throw them into the street unless you promised to give them a fight?"

Sighing in half exasperation, half wry amusement, Bob snorted. "Very dumb. Couldn't you have come up with a better reason?"

Anne appeared to give that some thought, then shrugged. "Naah. I know you're going to tell me why, so I can have the opportunity of making you blush. I can't seem to get enough of that!" she exclaimed.

It never seemed to amaze Bob how fast her mood always changed. 'Wasn't she just angry, or at least upset, at me a second ago?' he asked himself. He wondered about it, then shrugged his big shoulders. Perhaps he would never fully understand women, it seemed. Bob allowed a smile to form at that thought. Out loud, he said, "Well, I was forced into it. It's over this girl, her name's –."

Anne pounced like a hunting tiger. Her eyes widened in surprise, glee, and –did Bob wasn't sure about this- a little glimmer that might could have been a fragment of jealousy. Bob blinked his eyes twice; 'Can't be,' he thought, 'I must be seeing things.'

"Oooh, a girl! You were fighting over a girl? Who was she? Was she pretty, at least?" She fired off a multitude of questions with such rapidity that Bob didn't have any time to start answering. Well, he knew that she was easily excitable and generally very energetic, so having experienced this many times, he just waited patiently until she ran out of steam.

Looking at Anne with an amused grin, he crossed his arms over his chest, leaned back against the garage walls, and closed his eyes. Actually, he like listening to the sound of her voice. Even if she was energetic and even did speak quite fast, she didn't babble. Her method of speaking was always precise and orderly, and Bob generally had no trouble understanding what she said.

Twenty seconds later, she finally wound down, a bit out of breath. Bob had expected that too, and opened his eyes. "Are you done yet?" he asked rhetorically. Her face flushed a sudden pink, and she suddenly looked a little embarrassed. "I did it again, didn't I?" she asked meekly.

Grinning widely, Bob made a show of rolling his eyes and said, "Do you have to ask?"

"Oh, you!" she laughed and playfully smacked him on a muscled bicep. "Okay, okay. Stand up and get another chair for yourself," she ordered. "I'll listen without talking this time, I promise!"

Mock grumbling under his breath, Bob did as she requested. After bringing another folding chair from within the garage, they chatted lightly over various topics, how their week went, how was school, what did they do for the weekend. Then, as the nonimportant stuff got out of the way, Bob brought the main meat of the conversation out for grinding.

With Anne listening diligently and quietly, he told her of the events that had begun from him being involved in a little accident with a certain brunette.

Two hours later, Bob came whistling as he strolled in through the front door. He was feeling relaxed, relieved, and surprisingly light-hearted. George was a bit shocked at this sudden change of attitude. "Hey Bobby," he said, "you seem better off than you were a few hours ago. What gives?"

Taking off his dirty shirt and throwing it on his shoulder, his son answered casually, "Oh, I was just talking a bit with Anne. She was good company. Well, I'm off to the shower." Whistling again, he headed down the hallway towards the bathroom.

His brows lowered in confusion, George muttered, "I'd thought he'd be pounding away on the bags."

End Chapter 2

Author's Notes:

Kind of a sticky, tough chapter to write about Bob and George's interaction. Let me know how it went. Well, I've introduced a potential love interest for Bob in the form of his old friend/neighbor Anne Wards. To those of you who are wondering, I have no plans for Helen to show up as of yet while Bob is still in high school. Then again, we'll see how it plays out. This is just the beginning.

Tell me what you think of this chapter and I'll catch you guys next time in Chapter 3!


	4. The Secret Origins of Mr Incredible Chap...

Disclaimer:  
Disney and Pixar Studios are the proper owners of the characters from The Incredibles. The rest that I made up belong to my own twisted imagination. 

Sunday morning, 1:00 pm A local park

A group of ten teenage boys of varying height and build were sitting or standing in a rough circle. From the unified expressions on their faces, they were discussing a rather serious business. Unknown to the other people at the park, they were some of the members of Bernard High's football team, the Wolverines. At the moment, they were arguing about whether they should get some revenge for what Robert Parr did to Steve Millers, their captain. There were others who couldn't make it, as they were too busy to do so.

"I'm tellin' ya, we should teach dat guy a lesson he'll never fergit!" cried Pete Thompson, a hot-tempered, 6"5 redheaded linebacker. A good friend of his, Rob Cohen, who was shorter but was built like a bull, nodded in agreement and said, "If word gets out that some new kid, a freshman for goodness sake, beat the pants off THREE of the Wolverine's finest. That's an insult we can't afford to ignore. It'll be bad for our rep if we do."

"News flash, Cohen. Half the school already knows. That means by tomorrow everyone and their little sister will be talking about it." Lean, but fit Edward Wagner, who served as their running back, snorted in contempt. He'd never had much use for the two of them, as they tended to be a bit too impatient and jump the gun whenever they felt like it.

The Wolverine quarterback, John Kreiger, an arrogant ass if Wagner had ever see one, crossed his arms over his chest and shrugged his wide shoulders. "All the more reason why we should beat the entire crap out of this Parr guy. If we don't, people'll say that we're afraid of going up against him. I say we get him tomorrow, when classes are over." Thompson and Cohen voiced their agreement with him.

Randy Nathenson, who was second in command and the one responsible for calling and presiding over this 'meeting' of theirs, frowned at the rash behavior being shown by the three of his teammates. Personally, he was of the opinion that Steve and his two friends had been totally responsible for what happened to them, but he wisely decided to keep it to himself. His eyebrows furrowed as he began thinking.

Out of the entire football team, he was probably the most logical minded and usually came up with brilliant strategies as a result. Now, he tried his best to pit his formidable brainpower to come up with a viable solution that could appease everyone. Somehow he felt that it was impossible to do so, but he had to give it a shot. With Steve still recovering from his injuries, Randy felt that he had to provide some good leadership to the Wolverines. With that in mind, he began speaking.

"Gentlemen," he said calmly, "we should reconsider any possible brash action that we may be tempted to take. Most of us here are juniors and seniors, and as such, we are using the Wolverines to increase our chances of getting an athlete scholarship as our ticket to college. I am sorry to say this, but should we be found out to have been involved in the beating of an underclassman, well, that will go on as a black mark on our records and may ruin any chances of obtaining said scholarship."

Another Wolverine member named Gary Henderson chimed in. He was more laid-back and easy going than the majority of his teammates. "Randy's got a point," he admitted, "and besides, Parr took out Steve, Mike and Ray, all at once! Steve is probably one of the toughest guys in Bernard, and this guy manages to lay him out flat! Mike and Ray aren't too shabby either, and Parr took them out also. We should definitely take that into consideration as we think about this. And also of more importance, there are the scholarships to worry about."

Gary was surprised when a sophomore and a relatively recent member, Ben Lotbern, who tended to be silent and usually kept to himself, immediately spoke up. "I agree with Gary. From the looks of things, this Parr guy, he's obviously dangerous, maybe too dangerous to mess with. For all we know, we could be biting off more than we could chew if we pick a fight with him," he said, trying to act as the voice of caution. However, his attempt backfired when, after listening to his comments, more than half of the assembled members gave him angry and disgusted glares. Lotbern was made of stronger stuff though, and didn't wilt at the reactions he received.

Some of the Wolverines did more than glare however.

"Ooooooh, sounds like Lotbern's scared of a brat?" Thompson spat out. 'Brat' was the Wolverine term for freshman, who weren't allowed to join the football team. Only sophomores up to seniors could do so. Two of the four other boys who hadn't said anything yet snickered and began making clucking sounds. Kreiger jumped into act by calling out in a screeching tone, "Chi-chi-chi-chi-chicken! Lotbern's a chi-chi-chi-chicken!" More derisive laughter followed.

The linebacker smirked and turned to Gary. "Hey man, don'cha sweat it. We really don't mind if yer yellow and don't wanna get hurt; yer welcome ta quit 'd team cuz we really got no need fer cowerds like ya!" He howled in amusement and suddenly farted on the spot. Everyone near him paused in what they were doing, gave him a single glance, and collapsed in laughter.

Rolling his eyes, Henderson looked to the skies as if seeking divine patience to help him tolerate this crew. He shook his head; he didn't really feel a need to get revenge for Miller's sake just because the idiot had lost a fight which he had called for. Gary was only there at the meeting because Randy, in his opinion possibly the only one in the group with brains, had asked him to attend.

Thompson's insults didn't really bother him; heck, he'd had worse and besides, he was by nature a really thick-skinned person. Thompson didn't really rate as a significant person in his life so Gary didn't pay him much attention and regard at all.

However, it wasn't the case with Ben Lotbern. His face flushed red, his body stiffened, and a pissed look appeared. Closing his hands into tight fists, he stepped forward a foot and shouted at the linebacker, "Thompson, step up here and say that again to my face right now! C'mon! Do you have the balls to repeat what you just said?"

Said redhead ceased laughing and narrowed his eyes at Lotbern. "Oh? Say that again? I've got ta be goin' deaf? Are ya honestly tryin' ta provoke moi?" Ben glared angrily at him then replied, "You heard me, you little, gutless turd." At that insult, the other boys started going "Oooooooooohhh." One of them said to Thompson, "Hey man, you gonna take that standin'?"

Thompson's reply was instantaneous and short. "Hell, no. Watch yer mouth, Lotbern, b'fore I decide ta clean it out wit' a knucklesan'wich!" Completely unaffected by the threat, Ben shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. Taking a few more steps forward, he reached the middle of the Wolverine circle and cracked his knuckles suggestively. "So, you can talk the talk, but can you walk the walk?" he asked with a sneer.

"Jus' hold that pose, buttercup," the redhead demanded, beginning to move forward himself and slamming his right fist into the open palm of his left hand. Undoubtedly, the two of them would have gotten into a completely unnecessary and wasteful fight if their teammates hadn't pulled them away from each other and forced them to calm down.

Allowing the two angry Wolverines to settle down, Nathenson sighed loudly. "All right then, we must decide on how we are going to proceed on this situation. I suggest that we all take a vote; those who find the desire within themselves to deal with this Robert Parr person shall do so as they see fit. Those who do not want to participate in this matter shall do the same. All of us shall state our individual choice in the next two minutes, which shall give us sufficient time to think about it."

Cohen snorted loudly. "Two minutes to think about it? We don't need that much time, we already know what to do!" Gary frowned at his outburst in disapproval. "Shut your trap Cohen, and stop thinking of yourself, you idiot! Not all of us are willing to risk getting our scholarships approval rejected just because of one stupid fight!"

Edward Wagner added to two cents. "Besides, not all of us are born with a spoon in his mouth, so getting that scholarship means a great deal! Zip it and give us two minutes of silence so we can think it over, you spoiled twit!"

Cohen, who came from a very well off family, decided to take offense at the pair of insults. His eyes narrowed and his temper flared up angrily. Stepping forward, he scowled and pointed his finger threateningly at the two of them. "What the hell did you call me?"

Needless to say, the meeting took a long time to come to a conclusion. In the end, what happened was...

* * *

DarkSoar presents An 'The Incredibles' fanfiction The Secret Origins of Mr. Incredible "Freshman Year"

Chapter 3, Part One: Bob Parr VS the Wolverines, Round Two….

Monday morning, 7:30 am:

The bowl of Kellog's Frosted Flakes and milk before him lay half-  
eaten. It was absolutely silent that morning around the dining table in the Parr's residence, so silent that the only sound heard was the ticking of the wall clock. Bob Parr wasn't feeling too well at the moment. Not because he was sick, or he didn't get enough sleep, no none of that. It was something else entirely.

One guess to what was bothering him?

He was once again thinking and worrying about having to deal with the consequences of the fight he'd won against Millers and his two lackwits he'd brought with him. It was a blessing that the young man didn't have anything else to worry about, because currently, Bob personally felt that what he was dealing with was all he could handle. Despite his best efforts and any advice his dad had given him, it had remained quite a heavy burden on his shoulders and mind. Heck, the only respite he'd had was when he'd trained with his dad, and also chatted with his neighbor and best friend Anne. Aside from that...

Life reeaaaallly sucked sometimes.

Thus it wasn't surprising that he didn't feel at all that eager to go to school. Definitely not that morning, possibly not the next day, not the next week, and probably not until the end of the year.

With his mind on the inevitable confrontation between him and Miller's other teammates, he was absentmindedly stirring a spoon around in his milk, not realizing that the sweetened flakes having been turned to mush five minutes ago. "I am so dead," he murmured what was probably the tenth time ever since coming to the table for breakfast. "Jeez, what on earth was I thinking when I accepted Miller's challenge? I'm such a blockhead sometimes..."

"Bob."

"I mean, the entire football team is probably going to wait for me in one group when I show up at school. That's too many of 'em for me to fight..."

"Bob."

"I am soooo dead that it's not even funny. What am I supposed to do?" He continued to moan and whine about how he was going to end up looking like a piece of raw meat, without paying attention to anything else.

"ROBERT PARR! LISTEN TO ME WHEN I'M TALKING TO YOU!"

"Aaaaahhhhhh!" Completely shocked and taken off guard by the sudden loud shout, Bob fell out of his chair. "Ouch," he muttered as he rubbed his head where it had impacted painfully against the tiled floor. Looking around the side of the table, he glared at the person responsible, namely his father. "What's the big idea? What the heck was that for?"

George Parr couldn't help but chuckle in amusement. "Son, I've been trying to get your attention for the past five minutes, but all you've done was just sitting there, lost somewhere in Wonderland. Now get back up and tell your old man what's up," he commanded authoritatively. Sighing in resignation, Bob slowly stood up and sank bonelessly back into his chair. Slumping against the back of the chair, he said "What else could it be, Dad? It's the football team thing that I'm worried about. I can't stop thinking about it... I am soooooo dead," he moaned, bending forward and knocking his head against the table gently.

"I can't believe it."

His head still on the table, Bob asked, "Can't believe what, Dad?"

"I can't believe that I've raised such a coward for a son. I'm so ashamed; and after all these years I've wasted my time training you in boxing, oh I don't think I can show my face at work today!" 'Careful, George don't overdo it.'

Of course by this time, Bob was on his feet. His face was slowly turning red with anger and disbelief. His mouth was agape with shock at the sudden insults he was receiving from his father. It was taking him a while to recover the function of normal speech. "Wha-wha-what the heck are you saying?"

Completely ignoring his son, George clapped his hands over his face and continued ranting, "What kind of son have I raised? A chicken? A yellow blooded coward who runs away from all his problems? A spineless wimp? Oh, what would my father have said if he was alive to see this day?" George's father Ben Parr had passed away ten years ago due to old age.

"What! Hey, quit that will you, Dad! I AM NOT A CHICKEN NOR A COWARD!" The younger Parr's temper rose and his blood began to boil. How can his Dad say such things when he knew that they were so obviously not true at all? "Stop saying those lies!"

Despite Bob's demands, his father wasn't cooperating at all. With his hands still over his face, he shook his head in apparent shame. "Oh my only son, a whining disgrace! Afraid of a little thing like this! I'm so ashamed, my only son, a coward!"

Trapped between punching his father and or by showing him how wrong he was, Bob wavered. But when George started moaning on the absence of courage in his son's heart, said son finally had it. That was the final straw; enough was enough! Forgetting breakfast entirely, he fiercely grabbed his bag and took an angry pose of indignation beside the table. Lifting his right fist up and clenching it as tight as he could, he glared at George wrathfully. "A COWARD? A COWARD? CALL ME A COWARD, WILL YOU? WELL I'LL SHOW YOU DAD! I'M GOING TO SCHOOL AND I'M GONNA FACE THOSE IDIOTS, AND WE'LL SEE WHO'S GONNA BE LAUGHING IN THE END!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. When he finished his speech, he was breathing heavily. Pausing only to throw his backpack on, he threw George one final glare, ran towards the door, opened it, and dashed outside to take the school bus, which coincidentally, had just arrived.

The moment Bob exited the door, his father had a complete change in attitude.

"That's my boy." Taking his hands off his face, George calmly sat upright, reached up, and gave himself a pat on the back. "I knew taking that 'Human Psychology 103' class way back in college would eventually pay off," he murmured, continuing to eat his breakfast with a smug grin. He hadn't really wanted to do that, but there were several reasons which had overridden that reluctance. One, he wanted Robert to get out of the funk he'd been slipping into over the past weekend; two, he had felt a little ashamed that Bob would let himself get scared of something that would or wouldn't happen; three, Bob had to learn now that there were other alternatives to dealing with problems besides resorting to fists. George was doubly sure that his wife wouldn't have liked her only son to become a big time troublemaker.

Oh yeah, there was one more reason and which was probably the most important one of all of them. If Bob hadn't left when he did, he would've surely missed the bus.

"Go give 'em hell, Bob."

* * *

If looks could kill, anyone on the bus who met Bob's enraged gaze would've died on the spot. Fortunately for them, upon entering the school's transportation, George's son had plopped down in the first seat available, which happened to be the first one in front. He didn't bother to try to socialize with his neighbors; it seemed he was content to just stare straight ahead with his jaw clenched angrily. He alternated between tightening his hands into fists and releasing them, running his father's words to himself over and over again, unintentionally psyching himself up for, in his mind, the inevitable showdown.

'I can't believe Dad would say such things to me! And right in my face too! I mean, doesn't he remember that I told him that I beat three guys, all by myself? Dammit, he should be proud of me, not the opposite! Grrrrrr, it looks like I'll have to show him what a big mistake he made in saying those things!' Red hot, boiling rage was filling every pore of his body, it seemed, and he found himself shaking with eager anticipation and impatience.

The more Bob thought about it, the more righteous his indignation grew. He'd beaten their captain, yeah so what? It was a one on one challenge, and Millers had lost. Heck, he'd even beaten those two lackeys with him, and they weren't supposed to get involved in the fight at all! And now, just because he'd won, he would suffer? No matter what angle Bob turned it to look at, the logic of the situation was sincerely messed up. He simply couldn't understand it. It seemed to him that the only thing to do was to go forward with the day and if anyone should try to mess with him... Well, in his current mood, he was more than willing to 'correct' anyone if they tried to confront him on the issue of a certain football captain.

Bob tried to calm himself down and think of what he was going to do once he reached Bernard High. But it was near impossible to do so; his blood was running too hot to permit him to plan clearly. After three false starts, he gave it up and restrained himself (barely) from telling the bus driver to speed up. He couldn't help grimacing impatiently every time they had to stop to pick up more students. Of course, with his current demeanor, every new arrival avoided asking Bob if they could sit down. On another day, Bob would have enjoyed having the entire length of the seat all to himself, but now he hardly noticed.

The human ability for self-preservation can be increased to abnormally high limits. Thus, any student sitting within six feet of Bob Parr suddenly felt fear and anxiety run up their back like a pair of slithering snakes. Instinct pinpointed the source, and of course, seeing his tensed, hunched over body with the shoulder slightly shaking with suppressed emotion, helped by giving them a clue. Of course upon seeing that, they decided to try not to attract his attention, as they felt it would fall somewhere in the description of 'a very, very bad idea'.

It was good for them Bob ignored everything else; he was totally focused on trying his best to wait patiently enough for the bus to arrive at Bernard High. If he'd taken time to think over his current state of mind, Bob would've been definitely surprised to note that his earlier apprehensiveness about going to school was gone. In its place was a burning, extremely eager impulse to show the other members of the Wolverines who exactly they were messing with. Just let them try! He'll make anyone who dared regret it!

The bus driver, an old, gray bearded man in his late fifties, had caught the expression on the tall and obviously well muscled boy's face. Over the course of his job, he'd seen that look many times and nothing good ever came of it, only a whole lot of pain and injuries. Whoever had gotten on that Parr kid's nerves would soon be sorry they had ever thought to cross him, that the driver was sure of.

Well, it was none of his business. He was paid to pick up the kids and get them to school safely and on time. Whatever happened to them after that was not his responsibility. Putting those thoughts aside, he signaled and made a right. Three blocks to go before they would be coming upon their final stop.

Bernard High's parking lot.

End Chapter 3, part One

Author's Notes:

Whoooaahh, (lets out a breath of relief), I must apologize for the delay in this chapter. A number of things conspired against me in the last month and a half…writer's block, school, personal issues, stuff like that. Grooooaaan.

On a lighter note, Chapter 3, part two has already begun, and will be longer this chapter in any case. It SHOULD be coming soon (at least, in a shorter time period than this part one :D). Expect to see Lucius once again, Bob having it out with a certain football captain's girlfriend, and another new, very significant character shall be introduced.

Till next time!


	5. The Secret Origins of Mr Incredible Chap...

Disclaimer:

Bob Parr and Lucius Best are mine...NOT! Everyone else mentioned in this here story are my own creations.

DarkSoar presents  
An 'The Incredibles' fanfiction  
The Secret Origins of Mr. Incredible  
"Freshman Year"

Chapter 3, part two

Bernard High School

7:45 am

"Yo man, check out dat fox!"

"Ooooh, boy, I'd love to wake up every mornin' next to her!"

On the southern edge of the left side of Bernard High's 'front yard', two African American teenagers were standing next to each other, doing the one most important thing that was a duty any guy had a right to do: girl watching. One was tall and lanky, about 6'3, with the beginnings of a mustache and a shaved head. His companion was shorter at around 5"8, considerably larger around his midsection and also looked to weigh than 250 lbs.

The duo had picked this spot because it overlooked the parking lot, which preceded the grassy front yard, and also it was beside the main stairway that led to the main classroom building. A lot of girls usually frequented the two areas, especially around the stairway, and so many opportunities were presented were available to both of them.

For the next two minutes they continued on doing this until the one of them saw a familiar face walking across the grassy field and headed in their direction. "Hey, over here man!"

The greeting caught Lucius Best's attention and he looked around, having been caught in the middle of doing some thinking. A moment later, he recognized two of his cousins, Russ Hills (the taller one) and Samuel Best. Lucius also saw that the parking lot, stairway, and both sections of the front yard were all packed. Behind his two cousins, he could see dozens of students exiting cars, bikes, and other modes of transportation as they arrived for school. A good number of kids were hanging around the main stairway that climbed up from the bus stop and led directly to the main doors of the classroom building. Around near the front of the school were many other people just standing around, chatting, gossiping and just passing the time waiting for the bell to ring.

Russ was waving him over to the benches situated under the shade of the trees. Hesitating a bit, Lucius looked over the parking lot and the number of students moving around in it, then made a quick decision. He returned his cousin's wave and pointed towards his destination. "Yo Russ, sorry man, I gotta jet. There's someone I gotta catch; it's pretty important, aight? I'll meet ya two later!" Nodding at the two of them, he continued on his way.

Both Sam and Russ understood; Lucius probably had some business with some new chick he was checking out or something like that. They knew him well enough not to get irritated or angry that he was pulling something like this. They had grown up with him after all.

Deciding to meet up with him later, they returned, quite fervently, to what they were doing before. "Whoah bro, lookie! She's gonna be my future wife, I jus' know it!"

"Not if I got anything to say about it!"

* * *

At the moment, Lucius was feeling very confused.

Here he was, standing near the stairway leading up to the main building. Now his position in itself wasn't particularly odd, it was one of his favorite places to hang out before classes started. It was just that he was alone instead of Russ and Sam joining him in checking out the girls who passed by. Another difference was that he was on the lookout for someone he barely even knew.

But what was the most significant part of all, Lucius was in the process of arguing with himself, something he did rarely, if ever.

"Why on God's green Earth am I doin' this?" he asked himself. "C'mon Best, ya don't owe the guy jack! Even if he does come, he's a big boy! Ya saw him give that ass Miller a major beatdown; he can take care of himself!" Due to the raised volume of his last sentence, some of the people near him gave him strange looks and moved away cautiously. He even overheard one or two saying what kind of weirdo would be talking to himself in public.

Lucius scowled at them. Not at all reluctant to speak his mind, he went for it with a vengeance. "Hey, it's a free world, and by the way, was I addressin' ya when I was talkin'? I don think so! Mind yer own bizness, puh-lease!" The targets of his response just glared at him and turned their backs, not wanting to waste their time by bothering with him further. "Yeah, that's what I thought! Next time, keep ya ears closed to stuff that don't concern ya, got it!"

Smirking, Lucius returned to what he was doing. However, even after a minute of further arguing, and despite his own words that he should leave already, Lucius remained there against his will (or so he told himself). Grumbling, but without any real feeling behind it, he shook his afro-covered head in disbelief, unable to understand what he was doing. He did, however, persist in scanning the crowd, looking for a certain blonde haired six feet one inch of walking muscle.

He thought to himself that if 'Blondie' (the nickname Lucius had already tagged him with) did indeed have the balls to show up, he had a faint idea of trying to intercept him and repeat his warning before Blondie ran into Miller's 'goon squad'.

While he was scanning the crowd, he continued to argue with himself. "Okay, lookie here mister. Though Blondie did kick Miller's butt, it wasn't as if I asked him ta do it. He just upped and did that on his own; I owe him nuthin'. Matter of fact, I do believe that he owes me, twice already! I warned him first when Stillers was 'bout ta jump him from behind, and also 'bout the rest of 'em bozo Wolverines seekin' revenge sometime this week, possibly today! So mind ya own bizness and catch up with Russ an' Sam! "

However, Lucius was making little headway in convincing himself to follow his own advice. Although he initially had no idea why, it eventually dawned upon him that while his head was saying "leave", his heart was saying "stay". He glanced towards the top of the stairway, jumping from face to face. His brow furrowed as he picked out the various faces of some of the Wolverines that were standing around there. Noting the anticipatory predatory looks on their faces, a thought occurred to him. 'That Blondie had better not show his ass up today….'

Turning his head down towards where the stairway merged with the parking lot, Lucius idly watched as the school bus pulled up to a stop. His eyes still flicking over the knots of people standing around, Lucius didn't see him until he walked into view. Shaking his head in disbelief, Lucius stared again to reconfirm the identity and then slapped his forehead in disgust. Yes, without a doubt, it was….

'Oh terrific, what's that idiot doin' here? What the hell does he have fer brains? Rocks?' Then, as Lucius got a closer look at 'Blondie', he caught the look on his face. A shiver ran up his spine as he said to no one in particular "Damn, but he looks ready ta kill. He may be suicidal, but he sure got guts, I gotta give 'em that."

Chewing his lip in indecision, he watched Bob Parr for a second. Finally, he threw up his arms in self-exasperation and then turned away. Shrugging once, he reminded himself that it had nothing to do with him and he might as well start walking to where his first class was going to be.

Then again………

* * *

Bob Parr stepped out of the bus, his gaze unwavering, his face set and resolute. Ignoring the other students who had traveled with in the bus with him, his entire attention was only for what lay in front of him, which was the stairway and front yard of Bernard High. At the moment, both locations were full of students arriving, talking, and walking around everywhere his eye could see.

He knew instinctively that the Wolverines would try and intercept him either on the steps leading to the main entrance of the school or somewhere inside the class building. A little grin appeared; he didn't care where they did it, just as long as he could just beat some common sense into their thick heads he was fine with meeting them anywhere. After all, he'd beaten three guys at once; how much harder could this fight be?

Feeling very confident, he shrugged nonchalantly and his grin turned into a smirk. "Bob," he said to himself, "it's not good manners to keep them waiting. Let's go." With that he started walking forward at an even pace, resettling his backpack.

In his eyes burned a fire of determination and anger; his hands knotted into tight fists; his jaw clenched and firmed. Not an ounce of fear was present in his eyes, for his fighting spirit was geared up and ready to be unleashed. Keeping his footsteps steady and his path straight, the young Parr made his way towards the front steps.

All of his senses were on high alert; turning his head to the left and right constantly, he briefly studied every person that came within ten feet of him. As of yet, none had appeared to challenge or intercept him. Despite that, he didn't relax at all. Bob imagine that sooner or later, the Wolverines would make their appearance, throw in some words meant to be intimidating and an effort to try and force him to run away, and then finally settle the time and place for the fight.

The tall blonde was so tensed and fired up that when, out of the blue, a hand clapped him on the shoulder, he reacted instantly and whirled around, fist cocked back and ready to punch.

"Whoa, whoa, chill bro, it's me! Lucius, Lucius Best! No need fer Defcon 4, so chill!"

Surprised, Bob blinked his eyes and looked at the boy standing before him. Yup, same afro hair style, same face, it was indeed that guy who helped him out during his fight with Millers. Letting his fist drop down to the side, he allowed himself to relax a little. "Uh, sorry about that. You kind of startled me. I'm a little….hyped up at the moment."

The African American was staring up at him with a mixture of grudging admiration, disbelief and a little bit of disgust (at himself, though Bob couldn't tell). "I can imagine. Man, how the hell did ya pull up the guts ta show up? Ya got a deathwish or sumthin' like that?"

Bob just shrugged and said, "Naw, I don't have a deathwish. What I do have is a rather large desire to beat some sense into a certain football team to leave me alone."

Lucius's eyes widened at this calmly relayed proclamation. He shook his head and gave a short laugh, having trouble believing what Bob had just said.

"Dude, ya do know that there are more than ten remainin' players that ya haven't beat up yet?" He paused and gave a closer study of the taller boy's face and then noticed something….odd. "Hey Blondie, what's up wit' yo' face?"

"My face? What do you mean? And don't call me Blondie; it's Bob or Robert, though I prefer the former."

"Sure thing Blondie!" Lucius remarked cheerfully, ignoring a scowl thrown at him from the bigger boy. "What I'm saying is, what on God's green Earth happened to 'em bruises from last week? I can't see anything purple or yellow anywhere!" He closely studied Bob's face with a scrutiny that soon embarrassed the other boy.

Feeling uncomfortable with the attention, Bob stepped back and held out his right hand in a warding off gesture. "Whoah, hold on there a second. That's too close for comfort. And about the bruises, well, I've always been a fast healer ever since I was a kid. Besides, I've had three days for the bruises to go away. It's not really a big deal."

Actually, now that Lucius had brought it up, despite his words, Bob was rather surprised at the speed of which the injuries from the fight last week had healed. He'd been too preoccupied the whole of the weekend to notice, but it seemed to be a whole lot quicker to recover than the last time he'd fought, which was about a year ago. Bob spent a few seconds dwelling upon this until something more important came to his attention.

His posture, tone of voice, and mood completely shifted into a more serious mood as he asked "So, did you want anything? I'm kind of in a hurry."

Taken aback by the swift attitude change, Lucius considered for a moment. "Well, I suspect that ya already know, but some of Miller's goon squad are waitin' for ya. They be hangin' near the doors." He paused and turned his head aside, as if fighting some internal battle, then relented. "Bro, look, I usually don't say this ta guys I don't really know and whose bizness is none o' my concern, but I somehow I feel I gotta make an exception in yer case." He smirked cockily and then continued speaking.

"Personally, I've seen ya in action an' I've got an idea of how tuff ya are. Ya kick more butt than any other white boy I've ever seen before. Despite that, and don'tcha be takin' this the wrong way, I'm thinkin' yo' gonna be seriously outnumbered should ya decide ta take on the Wolverines this time."

"Outnumbered? Ha!" Bob scoffed, his serious demeanor softening. "I took on Millers and those two goons of his singlehandedly! I was outnumbered then and I still whipped their butts completely!"

Becoming amused at Parr's rising ego, Lucius shook his head. "Blondie," he began, once again ignoring the other boy's annoyed voice saying "It's Bob, Bob!", "from what I remember, ya took out Millers pretty easily 'cuz at first it wuz supposed ta be man ta man. Then, when Tonan an' Stiller joined in, yo' were havin' a pretty tuff time of it. In fact, ya could've had yo' ass handed ta ya if yo's truly hadn't stuck my neck out an' helped ya out."

Although the last remark irritated him, Bob was forced to concede the point, even if Lucius did exaggerate. Had Lucius not warned him about Stiller's last attempt, Bob would have probably lost the fight. He wasn't quite certain that he could survive two sneak attacks from behind. George's son thought about it and came to the conclusion that he did indeed owe Lucius one.

Bob nodded reluctantly at Lucius, who smirked again in reply and said, "As I was sayin', this time around there'll be more than three of 'em idiots. I can tell ya, a fair number of the Wolverines are pretty good friends wit' Millers, an' others are hotheaded and usually do stuff wit'out thinkin' first. When ya near the top," he indicated the section of the stairway just a few steps away from the main doors, "as sure as I'm my mum's fav'rite child, they'll stop ya there an' try ta shake ya down. Not all of 'em, I'm sure, but more than ya can handle, I can betcha on that."

Bob reflexively looked at where Lucius had indicated, but saw no one he recognized, only a number of boys and a smaller number of girls socializing with each other. He suspected that amongst them were at least some of the Wolverines. A pensive look came over his face and he rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Lucius noticed this and decided he'd done his good deed for the day.

"Anyways, my blonde-headed brutha, I've said my piece and now I've gotta vamoose. Watch yerself, some o' 'em are pretty hard nuts ta crack, plus from what I've seen of their fights in the past, they ain't that keen on playin' fair." He looked at Bob and said, "Oh yeah, and I'll collect later, aight?" With a brief nod, the African American walked past Bob, giving him a light punch on the shoulder on his way.

Turning his head sideways, Bob muttered his thanks to the other boy and then returned his attention to the problem at hand. Actually, Lucius did have a point. Bob had blasted onto the bus in a state of fury, thanks to his father, and didn't even take a moment to dwell upon the situation at hand. His anger, which had cooled down significantly when he and Lucius had been talking, now threatened to erupt anew.

But this time however, Bob kept a clear head and maintained his current line of thought. Then suddenly, inspiration struck as he remembered Lucius saying that the fight between him and Miller was supposed to be man to man. A plan formed in his mind and a crafty smile appeared. His self confidence, which had gone shaky when Lucius had reminded him of being outnumbered, strengthened and solidified.

His smile transformed into a confident smirk as he murmured to himself, "I'm not exactly soft either, myself. Ready or not, here I come!" He gave a short laugh and promptly resumed his march upwards on the stairs, not showing the slightest signs of hesitation or fear.

Fifteen feet behind him, Lucius was watching him advance and was also scolding himself on trying to advise Parr. Yet again, he'd done it without thinking twice and only at the end did he manage to get something for himself out of it.

However, deep down, he did hope that Bob would manage to survive the day.

* * *

"Hey, Parr, hold it there. We've got sum' business wit' ya."

"And so it begins," muttered Bob as he looked at the five boys who had gathered together a few steps above him. Some of the anger lying dormant flared up and it showed in his voice. "The hell you guys want with me?" Not that he didn't have a clue or anything, he was just following the script.

The guy who addressed him, a tall redhead standing a few inches over six feet who looked well on his way to becoming a professional body builder. He was wearing a white T-shirt, which only emphasized his musculature development. Bob became a little more concerned with this development, but refused to back down. The redhead spoke again "Ooooh, tuff guy eh? Th' name's Pete Thompson, of th' Wol'v'rines, an' us here don't like what'chu did tah our Cap'n and good buddy Joe! An' seein' since yer th' one tah blame, we're itchin' tah pay ya back."

"Is that so?" Bob asked as calmly as he could, which wasn't easy considering his heart was pounding anxiously, and his mind was silently urging him to introduce Thompson to his fist. He swiftly gave each of Thompson's teammates a swift once-over, trying to assess how much of a threat they were to him.

At the left, in the beginning of the line, was a short boy built like a bull with black hair in a crewcut; Robert Cohen. Next stood the taller, thinner yet still well muscled QB John Kreiger, his shoulder length shaggy brown hair looking like it never felt the touch of a comb before. To Kreiger's right was Thompson, and after him was…

George's son snorted partly in amusement, partly in amazement as he recognized none other than Joe Miller and Mike Stillers. He pointed a finger at the both of them and said, "Oh gosh, it's two of the Three Stooges! Where's your buddy Tonan? Still at home nursing his poor, abused nose! Hahahahah!"

While he was laughing, Bob studied their faces closer and saw the distinct yellowing color of several bruises in the process of healing. 'I guess that they didn't learn their lesson the first time around. They're a bit on the stubborn side….they haven't even recovered one hundred percent from our fight and it looks like they want a rematch. Idiots…'

By this time, both Joe and Mike's faces were slowly turning red with anger. The captain of the Wolverines was the first to regain his ability to speak. "You're dead, Parr, just wait till I get my hands on you, you little piss!"

Stillers got his two cents worth in, "You got lucky last time. This time we're gonna pound you into the ground so hard and so fast that you'll never know what hit you!"

Feeling incredibly amused, Bob snickered and he couldn't help himself, he began laughing out loud. 'Time to put the plan in action and hope that it works!' he thought to himself, while still chortling. "Well, if you guys wanna lose again, then I'll be happy to oblige…" He shrugged nonchalantly and a positively evil smirk appeared as he locked gazes with the duo.

"I'll kill you!" "Die!" These were the phrases spouted by Joe and Mike respectively as they tried to hurl themselves at the tall blonde who was mocking them. The three other Wolverines immediately restrained them.

"Yo Cap'n, cool down man! Now's not a good time!" hissed Cohen as he alternated between throwing angry glares at Bob and struggling to hold back Joe. "Just wait, we'll get him after school!"

Watching the antics of the enraged duo, Bob decided to give the ball a push. Speaking in a loud, clear voice that anyone within a twenty foot radius could hear, he said, "Oh I see! You guys want a rematch? Fine! Today after school, at the football field, around 4:30!" He waved his left arm at the group before him and added, "I"ll take the five of you on, one at a time! Unless, of course, you guys are too chicken and want to go against me all at once!"

Bob turned to the listening and intrigued audience and said, "You heard me, these Wolverines are too scared to fight me man to man; they can only fight when they have the advantage of numbers! That's why they showed up in a group; otherwise they would've been too yellow to do otherwise!"

After he finished his challenge, Bob turned back to regard the Wolverines. He saw in all of their faces, without exception, that they were ready to kill and maim. He could see that their pride and reputation were being tested by his outspoken challenge and felt that the result which he desired had a very good chance of happening.

The entire area around them was silent. Everyone else not involved were looking on with curiosity, amazement, and interest. All were waiting to see what the Wolverine's response was going to be.

Joe Miller somehow forced himself to calm down and gritted his teeth in barely suppressed anger. The other four were looking at him expectantly and impatiently, waiting to see what he would say. 'It wasn't supposed to happen like this, damnit!' he cursed to himself. 'We were supposed issue the challenge, wait patiently, and gang up on him after school!'

He had no idea how that little piss Parr had gotten the idea to announce it to the whole world, but now since with the cat out of the bag, it was obvious to the captain of the Wolverines that their options were limited. They couldn't go ahead with their original plan. Joe had no doubt that by lunchtime the whole school would know that there would be a fight between them and Parr, thus meaning that there would be an audience. Which meant that if the Wolverines just went ahead and ganged up on Parr, those watching would spread the news around that any one of the 'big strong' football team couldn't handle a one on one fight.

Definitely, that would be VERY bad for their public image. If that happened, the entire football team probably wouldn't want to show their faces at Bernard High for the rest of the school year.

Furthermore, Joe had to admit that Parr was quite formidable. Oh he still wanted revenge (and a rematch) for what happened last week, but Miller wasn't in the habit of denying reality on a daily basis. Over the weekend, he'd grudgingly accepted that Parr somehow had managed to overcome himself, Stillers and Tonan. He had to respect that toughness and be aware of it, even though he hated the person who possessed it. Miller was embarrassed to think it, but it just might take almost all five of them to bring down Parr. In that light he might be overestimating how tough their opponent was, but as a football captain, Miller was quite experienced in dealing with strong opposing teams and he well knew it was better to be safe rather than to be sorry afterwards.

With those thoughts in mind, Joe came to a decision and, although it was very much against his will, made it.

* * *

Bob looked at the clock for the fifteenth time in ten minutes. It was 8:45, he was in Civics, and was completely bored out of his mind. It didn't help that he was very impatient for school to end. As it was, he couldn't pay the least bit of attention in class and tried to distract himself by doodling on his notebook. He'd been somewhat successful after drawing countless pictures of Joe Miller and company, looking completely beaten up and ragged looking.

When the clock hands reached nine, the bell finally rang. As was the standard operating procedure when the end of the period was signaled, every student in all classes quickly stuffed their books in their bags and began to exit the rooms. For his part, Bob was out of his seat like a shot and was the first person out of the door, which was no mean feat considering that he was sitting in the middle row. After walking down the hallway, he approached his locker and unlocked it. It was then that he heard someone addressing him from behind.

"Hey, you Robert Parr? The guy who's supposed to tangle with the Wolverines after school?"

Looking behind him, Bob saw someone who was unfamiliar to him; a guy at about 5"10, with messy, short wavy brown hair, black eyes, and a slightly chunky build, wearing eyeglasses. Grabbing the book he needed out of his locker and stuffing it into his bag, he replied, "Yep, that's me. Who wants to know?"

The boy considered him thoughtfully, then said, "My name's Scott Winters, and I'm a bit curious, you might say. I've heard the rumors and decided that I wanted to check them out if they had any truth to them."

Bob answered him while closing his locker and snapping shut the combination lock. "That's nice. Okay, so now you've seen me in the flesh. You satisfied?"

"Not really, at least not yet. Hold on a minute; can I ask you a question?"

The tall blonde smirked in amusement. "You just did."

"Wise-ass" Scott cracked good-naturedly, a big appreciative grin spreading over his roundish face. "Seriously now, how many of them are you going to take on?"

"Five." Bob sounded like he was discussing the weather, his voice was so calm and his manner unruffled. The glass wearing boy looked a little bothered and shocked by the easily tossed off answer. Summer's next question sounded exactly what he felt. "F-five? C'mon man, be straight with me. You can't be facing five of them unless you're--."

"Out of my mind? Insane? Crazed? Out to take a visit to the nearest asylum?" Parr frowned and his eyes narrowed in annoyance. "I've heard nothing else ever since that idiot of a captain, Miller, accepted by challenge earlier on top of the stairs out front. Believe you me, I'm dead serious," he turned to face Scott, held up a fist, and started counting off names. "Besides Milller and Stillers, there'll be three other guys joining them; Cohen, Kreiger and Thompson."

Scott was still having trouble with it. "Yeah, but five of them? I mean, you look pretty tough yourself, but I mean, c'mon, these guys are FOOTBALL players!"

Just then the bell rang and the hallways instantly became a flurry of movement everywhere. Bob sighed and turned to go, but not without saying one last thing, "Look Winters, was it? Stop by the football field after four thirty. You'll see that I'm not pulling your leg... I've got to go now, see you later, all right?" With that he walked away, merging with the flood of students, leaving Scott alone to ponder what he heard.

* * *

10:30 a.m.

World History

To his growing irritation, Bob found himself becoming rather well known as the day progressed, and not in a good way. In the rest of his morning classes, a lot of notes were passed to him; more than half asked him if Bob had plotted out a good place where to be buried. Between periods, people would look at him with skepticism or disbelief, laugh or just shake their heads in pity. Others were bold enough to walk right up to him and express their belief that any freshman who dared cross the paths with the Wolverines was, simply put, a complete idiot or mentally unbalanced.

It was damned annoying, and soon Bob was hard pressed to ignore all of it. But try as he might, some of the remarks and comments got to him and increased his irritation, which started darkening his mood and attitude. To try and take his mind off them, he began thinking about the upcoming fight.

While he was thinking about it, Bob suddenly realized something was wrong about the way he was treating the coming fight. Earlier that morning, he was afraid of facing the Wolverines, which was understandable because he'd thought that he'd be facing the whole football team. An alarming concept for anyone to deal with, to be sure.

Yet even now, Bob was mystified with his lack of a reaction, for the most part. He knew who he'd be fighting, how many of them there were, and now there would be a certain order to the fight. Still, even with all that, he was still badly outnumbered. It was possible that he could beat the first two or three guys, but after that, he'd be worn out and too tired to keep it up. The remaining Wolverine members would be fresh and ready to go while he would be tired, hurting, and low on energy and stamina. There was a ninety percent chance that he would emerge from this contest bloody and bruised all over. He'd be lucky if they didn't break any bones of his.

By rights, he should be petrified with fear and troubled by apprehensiveness. Sweat should be running down his face and he should be dreading every tick of the clock hands that brought 5:00 a second closer. He even should be feeling tempted to ditch school and dash out of the building, running for his life.

But he wasn't. He wasn't feeling the least bit worried at all. It was beginning to get a little weird and a bit unsettling. Although Bob had used his previous victory at a morale booster and ego reinforcement, he'd done it to help raise his spirits and confidence that morning while on the bus. On that note, he had to give his dad credit; the old man had deliberately insulted him in order to make him mad instead of wallowing in fear and nervousness. He mentally reminded himself to thank his dad for pushing him that way when he got home after he won the fight.

Pause. Hold on a minute.

There he went again; 'after he won the fight'. Why on Earth was he assuming that he would WIN? In previous fights he'd had, Bob had never had reason to feel this…sure of himself. A sudden worry sprang up; was he getting too cocky and overconfident? Was he overestimating his own abilities and underestimating those of his opponents?

It was very possible, and soon Bob began searching his feelings and thoughts in earnest.

Yes, he'd acknowledged the seriousness of the fact that he was going to fight against five opponents, one at a time. Two of them, he was slightly familiar with, while the rest were a complete enigma. And yes, he'd acknowledged the fact that against such odds, the chances of him emerging victorious were less than 1 in 10. And yes, he'd acknowledged the fact that he'd gotten lucky in his last fight. If they had attacked him all at once and had Lucius not given him that timely warning then he would've lost.

However, what he didn't understand why he, Bob Parr, didn't feel the great pressure one would expect in such a situation like this. He'd felt it before in competitions, tournaments, and the like, but WHY ON EARTH NOT NOW? Especially when the odds were significantly stacked against him! To Bob's thinking, that wasn't normal.

Yet Bob had no answers for that question. The only thing that he did reveal was that for no concrete reason, he had a good feeling about the outcome of the fight. And that was the part which baffled him the most; even with all the factors which he acknowledged, even with all the questions thrown at it, he couldn't find out the slightest satisfactory answer at all….

"Mr. Parr!"

The loud annoyed voice of someone calling him instantly snapped Bob out of his internal contemplation. "Huh, whaa? Who?" he mumbled intelligently, looking around dazedly. His classmates took the opportunity to snicker and giggle at his confusion.

"Mr. Robert Parr! I would definitely appreciate it if you would join the rest of us in World History, thank you very much!" Ms. Starbath glared at him, her wrinkled face contorting with the gesture, making her look like some sort of crazed old witch from a childhood fairytale.

More laughter followed her request. Bob blushed a deep red and muttered a quick "Yes, ma'am, sorry ma'am," and fought the nearly overwhelming urge to blush a deep red. He failed however, but luckily managed to cover his face with his textbook, which was standing open on his desk. He hated being caught like that and being embarrassed in public at the same time (who does?).

* * *

12:10 p.m.

Bernard Cafeteria Hall

The cafeteria was crowded with students, either sitting at the lunch tables, standing in line, or somewhere in between. The air was filled with idle chitchat and gossip as teenagers of varying ages enjoyed each others' company and relaxed in their hour long break away from the dreary ho-hum of classes.

Bob was sitting by himself at a table in the corner, his food half eaten before him. Currently, he was looking at the lunch crowd and scowling in irritation. All of the bad press was really getting on Bob's nerves. He didn't mind that the school was abuzz with talk of the upcoming fight, but what the real problem was that most of it consisted of speculation of him being pounded to a pulp. Such talk got old pretty quickly and he struggled to tune it out.

The looks he was receiving, whether of pity, amusement, disbelief, contempt, anger (from several certain Wolverine members), and a little bit of sympathy, were getting tiresome and grating on his nerves. He was hot with impatience, wishing that the day would hurry up and end so the fight could begin already. Then he could beat all of 'em and turn around everyone's opinion.

"Yo, Parr!" a familiar voice called out to him from his left. Turning his head, he relaxed a bit when he saw Lucius and two other African Americans whom he didn't know.

"Go ahead, have a seat," Bob remarked. It would be good for a change to associate with someone he knew. It would definitely help him ignore the staring and odd looks and whispered comments. Stupid people, why couldn't they mind their own business.

"Don't mind if we do," Lucius replied, setting action to words as the three of them sat down across the table, facing Bob. "These are my cu'zins, Russ an' Sam. I've told 'em 'bout ya."

Despite his dark mood, Bob managed a somewhat amused smirk and nodded at them. "Hi there. Have a seat." They complied and then Bob asked Lucius, "Did you tell them how I gave Miller a thorough beatdown?"

"Of course, Blondie, that wuz the first thin' outta my mouth."

Russ was the first to speak up. "Even tho' Lucius is blood, he ain't exactly above exaggeratin'. Matter of fact, he's well known in the fam'ly for doing such things. That's why the both of us asked him to introduce us so we could judge for ourselves, ya dig?"

Lucius threw his bigger cousin a dark look and said, "Ya didn't have ta go and tell it like that, fool." Russ cheerfully ignored this comment and was conveniently looking elsewhere.

"Hey, so Parr, you the cat who's plannin' ta push up daisies at an early age? I dunno whether to call you the craziest fool I've evah seen or the most conf'dent egoman'yac I'll evah meet." That from Sam, who had a look on his round face that seemed to be a cross between awe, scornful disbelief, and pity.

Russ chimed in a second later, "Yah, my thoughts exactly. So, Mr. Bob, care to lettin' us know what's up and what's been goin' on?"

"Count me in," a new voice said. Everyone looked up to see who it was. Bob quickly recognized the person who he had talked to in the hallway earlier. "Hey, it's you again."

Pushing his eyeglasses higher up with his forefinger, Scott Winters nodded at the four of them in greeting. Lucius nodded back at him and said, "Hey Winters, feel free to join in. Pull up a seat." Scott immediately complied and said hello to Russ and Sam.

Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, Bob remarked "I met Scott in the hallway a few hours ago, but how do you guys already know each other?" Scott shrugged and replied, "Lucius and I have lived in the same neighborhood for about five years or so, although we didn't go to the same school back then. Russ and Sam, on the other hand, were my classmates ever since the start of junior high. They're wierd, loud, and obnoxious, but they're a good to hang around with."

Sam snorted and rolled his eyes. "Don't go list'nin' ta dat garbage four-eyes is spoutin'. He's a reg'lur motormouth, yakkin' is what he does best." Russ was nodding in complete agreement with his cousin, although a wide grin on both of their faces was mostly undermined the force of the insults.

Satisfied that their ritual greeting was completed, Scott jumped back on track to the original matter at hand. Turning to Bob, he asked, "So, what's up? Are you going to give the story behind the fight that's supposed to happen this afternoon?" From behind the glasses, a gleam of interest could be clearly seen in his eyes.

His mood having been lifted somewhat by the company at his table encouraged Bob to cheer up and start talking. He didn't see why not and began by explaining the accident with Jennifer that had pushed Joe's hand to force the fight to take place. He described with great relish and satisfaction (not to mention in fine detail) how the fight went with the three Wolverine football members and how Lucius had warned him. To Lucius's amusement, Bob made it sound like he fought all three at the same time, rather then Joe Miller first, and then his two friends later on. Skimming over his weekend, which was rather boring compared to the weekdays, Bob finished up with what had happened when Joe had accepted Bob's proposal in public.

"That's a pretty interesting story there, if it's all true that is," commented Scott as he lazily leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. "I mean, you beating three guys at once is a stretch for the imagination, you know."

"True, true, the man speaks for me," added Sam, pointing to the brown-haired boy.

"Ditto," Russ said, looking at Bob doubtfully.

Being at the center of attention was a bit uncomfortable for Bob, but he tried to deal with it as best he could. The sentiments of disbelief being expressed by the three boys irked him and caused his anger to flare up, but he managed to stamp it down in time. Addressing Scott, he said, "Well, like what I said before, if you don't believe me, just go to the football field around four thirty. As to whether or not you believe whether I won against Miller and his two stooges last week, I've got a witness in Lucius here."

A sudden idea took form and he said, "Whether you believe me or not is obviously your choice. What I did last week is going be peanuts compared to what's going to happen this afternoon; as I've said, I'm going to be fighting five of the Wolverines, and I'm pretty sure that I'll win. In fact, I'm so confident that I'm willing to bet on it."

"Ooh, a bet? Blondie, this is startin' ta sound reeeaaal interestin'." Lucius rubbed his hands together, grinning like a madman. "I'll be the middleman, jottin' down those bets. Any takers?"

"Thanks Lucius, and remember it's 'Bob'? Anyways, here it is. I'll bet the three of you, Russ, Sam, and Scott, five dollars each if I lose today. If I win, however, each of you guys have to pay me five dollars. How's that sound?"

"Heh, I'll take that bet!"

"Same here!"

"Prepare to lose fifteen bucks Parr!"

Bob just sat back and grinned like a Cheshire-Catlike smile.

Lucius watched the proceedings with an inscrutable expression.

The rest of the people in thecafeteria went on with their business.

* * *

4:45 pm.

Quite a crowd had gathered at the football field in eager anticipation, massing near a hundred. Most of them were sitting in the bleachers and socializing while patiently waiting for the much waited event to begin. Near the middle of the field, the five Wolverines who were going to take part were relaxing and lounging around. Some of their teammates professed some interest in seeing out it all turned out and decided to stay after school to watch.

Some thirty feet away from them, Bob stood in the middle of a small group comprised of Lucius, Sam, Russ and Scott. His back was turned to the Wolverines and he was currently wrapping his forearms with long strips of white cloth.

While he was busy, Russ took the opportunity to ask him where he got those and why he was doing that in the first place. Although seemingly absorbed in his task, Bob had the presence of mind to answer him. "I just asked the janitor for these, saying that I needed to clean up a spill in Chemistry class. He gave them to me easily, without too much trouble. As for why I'm doing it, well, you see, I'm an amateur boxer. What that means is while I"m practicing, I have my gloves to protect my fists and I don't really have to worry about my forearms being injured that badly because my opponent's gloves help cushion the impact somewhat. But since I don't have my gloves with me, and I really doubt that they (the Wolverines) will wear any, I gotta improvise. Also, since I'll be going up against five opponents, you can bet that I'll be blocking a whole lot of punches. This'll help protect my forearms from getting too bruised. I'll also wrap my fists, in order to protect them from the pummeling they'll take from impacting against a face. I figure that since they play football, even with helmets, their faces are pretty rough after getting hit by elbows, shoulders, and whatnot." Despite the fact being untrue, it caused all of them to have a good laugh.

"A boxer, eh?" Russ remarked with some interest. "Hey, if that's the case, what's are yo gunna call yo'self?"

Lucius looked at his cousin like he was dumb or something. "Idiot, I've already told ya his name."

Shaking his head, Russ corrected him, "Not 's name, fool, what I mean 's a stage name; y' know, sum kind of fancy dancy title all them pro's just luv ta hang on themselves. Like, for 'xample, Mike "The Crushah" Williams, or Paul "Fist of Rock" Dunts. Well, I figah that since Bob here's a boxer or sum'thin', he should hang a title on 'imself as well. Anyone got any ideas?"

Sam took this opportunity to throw his own two cents in. "Hey, don't'cha fergit 'bout the othuh side. How 'bout callin' 'em "The Wolverine Five? Has a nice ring ta it, don'cha think?"

Scott gave his shoulders a little shrug; he didn't care either way. Lucius shared a similar reaction and opinion. Bob wasfocusing on his taskso he couldn't comment. It fell to the remaining two African American boys, who immediately began suggesting various names and titles back and forth. They agreed on 'The Wolverine Five', but kept disagreeing on an appropriate title for Bob. Finally they came to the conclusion that they would wait until the fight was over and then they would see what would be a good name for him.

For Lucius's part, although he didn't admit it out loud, he was feeling kind of worried for the tall blonde. Even after witnessing Bob win against Tonan and Stillers' double team, he was afraid that the day would finish with Bob having to be absent from school for a few days in order to recover. He stuffed away his thoughts for later and looked around the small group. Scott was studying Bob's opposition with a keen eye while Sam and Russ were now arguing about how long Bob would last.

"There we go," commented Bob in satisfaction, holding up his arms for inspection. "Not a bad piece of work, if I say so myself. Not exactly my boxing gloves, but they'll do for now."

A voice from the other side caught their attention, "Hey Parr, are you ready, or do you wanna forfeit and go home to your Momma like a scaredy cat?" A few snickers followed immediately thereafter.

Bob turned around and squarely met the gaze of the owner of the voice, who was of course Joe Miller. Although on the outside he seemed calm, the mention of his long deceased beloved Mom had touched a very painful memory within. All of the impatience and anxiety which he'd managed to barely keep a hold of throughout the entire day yelled to be let loose. His anger, stirred by Miller's bold question, urged him to beat the football captain into a bloody pulp. With all that going on, Bob was still able to note that even now he was still sure of his ability to win this particular contest.

A tight, mirthless smile and, alternatively clenching and relaxing his fingers, he spoke to the four other boys, "I guess this is it, guys. Lucius, do me a favor and keep an eye on them, make sure these three don't suddenly run off when I finish off the last one, okay? In the meantime stick around, all of you are in for one hell of a show." Offering them a nod, he strode towards the Wolverines.

Coming to a stop about fifteen feet away from them, Bob absently noted that everyone's attention was on him and his opponents. He paid it no mind and immediately raised his bandaged fists, an eager predatory gleam shining in his eyes.

"Who's first?"

End Chapter Three, Part Two

Author's Notes:

Bwahahahah! I know you guys must absolutely hate me for doing this but I thought it was a good cut-off point. I love suspense, don't you:D

I must apologize. In the Author's Notes last chapter, I said that Bob would have it out with Jenny, but I think I'll save that for the next chapter! I'm sure you guys can guess who "Scott Winters" is :D Shouldn't be too hard...

Okay, I'll take this opportunity to thank EVERYONE who has taken the time to review The Secret Origins. I really appreciate it and reading such reviews encourages me to write more...keep 'em coming!

See ya in the third, and last part of Chapter Three!


	6. The Secret Origins of Mr Incredible Chap...

Disclaimer:

With several clicks on my heels, I want to own the Incredibles, I want to own the Incredibles... Wish denied ...Darn!

DarkSoar presents

An 'The Incredibles' fanfiction

The Secret Origins of Mr. Incredible

"Freshman Year"

Chapter 3, part three (Complete version)

...FIGHT!

Warning: Expect a little profanity in this chapter. Nothing serious though

"Who's first?"

Sweeping his eyes over his assembled opponents, Bob saw that every one of the Wolverine Five (as Sam named them), was willing to step forward and claim that position. He idly noted the presence of Jenny; she was holding on to Joe's arm quite possessively and was snuggling close to her boyfriend. Every now and then she would throw Bob the Glare of Death(tm), which didn't affect him at all. Completely ignoring her pathetic efforts at intimidating him, he patiently awaited an answer to his proposal.

He wasn't kept waiting too long. One of the Wolverines accepted it with an eager expression, even though the evidence from his last fight was still in the process of fading. Joe Miller pulled Jennifer close to him for a deep kiss and hugged her close; she whispered something in his ear that made him smile in glee. Turning his head towards Bob, a hungry look of revenge burned in his eyes. After Jennifer relinquished her hold of his arm, Joe began walking forward, rolling up the sleeves of his blue and white sweater as he went. He jabbed a finger at Bob and said, "Me, you little piss. I want to get me some payback for last week!"

Bob just smiled and casually wave for Joe to approach.

"Hey, looks like someone's eager to die!" exclaimed Kreiger, snickering. The other Wolverines chuckled and started mock-begging Joe to have mercy on the freshman.

Jennifer was busily cheering her hunk on. "Joe honey, teach that rude jerk a lesson for me, will you? And do it right this time around, after all, you and I have a reputation to protect!" Said boyfriend winced a little at the subtle reminder of his previous loss; it was obvious to Bob that Jennifer still held it against him for bumping into her in the hallway. He rolled his eyes and thought, 'Damn, will she never get over that?'

Dismissing her from his thoughts, Bob refocused his attention on Joe and frankly told him, "I've got a bit of advice for you Miller. Unless you're a sucker for being beaten down and you want to be humiliated in front of your girlfriend, your team, and everyone else, I sincerely suggest that you stand down and let someone else fight. If you don't, then I can promise that I'll make you hurt a lot worse this time. The truth of the matter is, you can't beat me no matter how hard you try! And that is my last warning to you. Take it or leave it, I don't care which one you choose but make it quick. I've got a busy schedule ahead of me and I want to finish it all up as fast as I can." Finally finished with his speech, Bob folded his arms over his chest and awaited the reply.

Scoffing loudly at his opponent's hot air, Joe pointed at him and glared menacingly. "For a little piss, you sure can talk big, but the real deal is, can you back up that crap falling from your mouth?" Then he finally noticed the layers of cloth wrapped around his opponent's arms and hands. Coming to a conclusion, he said, "So you say, but I gotta wonder why did you bring some bandages with you? Hey look everybody! Parr brought his own bandages for his boo-boos!" Some of his teammates laughed disdainfully while a small number from the audience chuckled mildly.

"They're needed to protect my fists from your ugly face!" Bob replied, the laughter affecting him more than he would admit. Yet another reason why he needed to beat the utter crap out of Joe today. "I wouldn't surprised if Jennifer gives you the boot after you LOSE again," he added for good measure.

"Like I said, you can talk the talk but can you walk the walk? And leave my chick out of this, you little piss!" Joe put up his fists and assumed a fighting stance, edging closer towards his archenemy.

"'Little piss', 'little piss', is that the only insult you've got? For a big idiot, you sure have a limited vocabulary. I mean, c'mon, is that all your tiny pea-sized mind can come up with? Then again, I shouldn't be surprised, after all, you don't even notice it when Jenny manipulates you into certain situations, like last weeks' fight for example." Bob shook his head in mock sympathy. "Now how pathetic is that?"

"I said, leave Jenny out of this," Joe stated in a barely controlled voice of anger.

Bob recognized the implied threat but decided to ignore it. "Ah, don't worry, I'll leave your face alone, for the most part. That way, she won't be scared when she tries to kiss your already ugly mug," he taunted his rival. "Maybe one or two hits. Or more. I'll avoid your jaw, I want you conscious enough to be able to enjoy all the sorts of wonderful pain that you'll be feeling very soon."

"I'm gonna shut that big mouth of yours up for good," Joe sincerely promised.

"Ooooh, I'm scared."

The two opponents then silently understood that the time for talking had passed. Without a further word, they started walking towards each other purposefully, with their fists raised in their respective stances. Bob began circling around the captain of the Wolverines, who immediately reciprocated. The tall blonde immediately noticed that Joe had indeed learned from his mistakes and was being more cautious, not charging ahead blindly like before. His trained eyes studied his opponent's stance and he was not impressed. By what he could see, there were various holes in Joe's defense and the strikes which were possible from that stance were quite easy to predict. The two of them continued doing this for several more seconds, shuffling to the left and right randomly, watching the other's movements with an eagle's scrutiny...

* * *

Joe was hyped up and ready to rumble. He'd been anxiously waiting for this chance to avenge himself upon Parr, and the promise that Jenny had whispered to him spurred him on.

"If you win, you can come over later tonight."

That was ALL the incentive he needed to pulp Parr's face into mashed meat. Last week had been a fluke; he'd been careless and had underestimated his opponent. Not today, though, today was going to be VERY different. That little piss was going to be a whole world of hurt and worse after Joe was done with him. Oh yes, Joe was going to make him look like a complete loser in front of everyone here and eventually turning him into the laughing stock of Bernard High.

Turning his attention back to the coming fight, the football captain began inching closer and closer to Parr. His entire body was brimming with energy; he was primed and ready to block and punch at a split-second's notice. Focusing all his attention on Bob's shoulders and arms, the moment they twitched he would immediately react.

Closer...closer... three feet apart...two feet apart...almost within range, his mind noted. Any time now Parr would make his move and he would block and then counterattack right away, thus keeping Parr on the defensive. From that point on, it would be downhill for Parr all the way.

There!

Parr's left shoulder moved and his fist shot out. Joe acted without a second thought; he moved his head to the side, while at the same time shifting his weight to his right foot and cocking his right fist back...

* * *

"Oh...my...gosh..." mumbled Russ in shock as he watched the fight between the two boys. Fight? It was more like a one-sided slaughter.

Sam's mouth was hanging agape as he silently agreed with his cousin's inadequate comment. He'd expected a beat down, but nothing like this. Scott Winters reaction was similar and of like mind.

Lucius was shaking his head in pity. Compared to this, what he'd witnessed last week was child's play. "Bob," he muttered in disbelief, not realizing that for once he called his friend(?) by his real name.

* * *

All the impatience suppressed by Bob burst free, flooding his system with adrenaline. A fast jab flicked out towards Joe's face, who instinctively responded by twitching his head to the left. However, it fell short, it was never meant to connect only to serve as a distraction. Bob pulled that arm back while simultaneously stepping in with his right foot, and while twisting his upper body, unleashed a powerful right roundhouse, all in one smooth motion.

Joe's world went white with pain as Bob's wrapped fist slammed against the left side of his face with the force of a sledgehammer. He staggered to the side, desperately trying to recover. "That's one!" snapped Bob, already on the move, taking advantage of the temporary stunned Miller. Stepping in with his left foot, the young Parr's left fist half buried itself in Miller's stomach, quickly followed by his right. Relentless, Bob pushed his attack, focusing on Miller's stomach and abdomen, spurred on by the adrenaline rushing through his body.

He struck out with a double left-right straight combo to the chest, pushing Joe backwards further, then with a hard low left hook to an unguarded kidney. Ignoring Miller's yelp of pain, Bob lashed out with a similar attack, this time with his right arm, to the other kidney, making Miller yell out again. Grinning in pleasure at how he was doing so far, Bob took a step back to analyze the situation, as well as catch a quick breather.

It seemed that Joe was struggling desperately to regain his breath as well, and was frantically backing up. So far, aside from his first punch thrown, he hadn't had the opportunity to attack at all. Of course, that was exactly how Bob wanted it. Nodding to himself in satisfaction, George's son prepared to continue the assault.

However Miller had recovered much quicker than the freshman had anticipated. As Bob once again stepped closer he was hit with a right straight appearing out of nowhere. Or it would have if Bob's reflexes and training hadn't kicked in, causing him to sway his upper body to the side, just barely dodging the surprise attack. The young Parr felt Joe's fist brush the hair above his right ear and he frowned. If his father George hadn't pulled a similar tactic many times in the past during their sparring sessions, Bob was certain he would have suffered from a broken nose. His opinion of Miller's abilities rose a bit higher and he reminded himself that he had to be more cautious.

Bob forced himself to table his thoughts for later consideration as he lifted both of his forearms in front of his body and face to block a furious array of attacks from Miller. Thanks to the layers of cloth wrapped around them, the pain from the impacts was muted down to almost being negligible. Joe snarled in frustration and persisted, alternatively using straights and hooks. But Bob's defense was on a higher level as he bobbed, weaved, and blocked, incidentally dodging everything with mere inches to spare. All the while he was wearing a cocky grin on his face, which further enraged Miller.

'What an idiot,' thought Bob, ducking to his head to avoid a high right hook. 'Just by looking at his shoulders and the positioning of his arms, I can almost predict what kind of punch he's going to throw and prepare for it. He's burning up whatever energy he managed to pull up from God knows where, while I'm conserving mine by dodging with the least amount of effort.'

Of course, Joe didn't realize this; he was too stuck on trying to nail a solid blow on the hated Parr. "You damned slippery weasel!" he shouted in frustration, "stand still and fight like man!" An underarm swing cut through empty air as the freshman easily sidestepped it.

Bob shook his head in mock pity. "And what's your definition of a man? Or rather, do you really think that you ARE a man to begin with?" Although initially Bob had wanted to knock Miller out as quick as possible, it suddenly occurred to him that perhaps that wasn't the best way in dealing with his opponent. After all, in their first fight, he'd taken down Miller with only two blows but the football captain didn't learn his lesson because here he was again, fighting with Bob. No, it was obvious to George's son that something else had to be used instead of pure brute force alone. Something else to utterly convince Joe to leave Bob Parr alone for GOOD this time.

"Awww shut up! You don't know who you're talking to!" raged Miller, trying for a freint, followed by a double jab, and finishing up with a roundhouse punch. The first was ignored, the second was deflected and the last was ducked. Bob made no move to counter-attack; he just kept with his defensive maneuvers while at the same time taunting his opponent and grinning wildly.

"Sorry Joey, but I've got a pretty good idea who I'm talking to," Bob remarked with a grin. "Robert Parr, meet Joe 'Glass Jaw' Miller!" He laughed out loud, ducking a right straight as he remembered how he'd taken down the football captain with only two blows. "Now if that wasn't pathetic, I don't know what is!"

"Arrgggghhhhh!" One guess on who that was.

"C'mon man, it's not that bad! It just means that you simply do not know your weaknesses," Bob stated. "Yak, yak, yak. Here I am, doing all the talking, how rude of me," he said in a decidedly insincere voice. "We'll talk about you now, okay? So, I'll bet you're wondering, what in the world is this freshman talking about? Who does this guy think he is? I've got no weaknesses! I mean, I'm Joe Miller! I'm the captain of the Wolverines! I'm the toughest and most respected guy on campus! I knock over guys bigger than me on the field like they were made of straw! I've got one of the most beautiful girls in school as my chick and I'm the envy of the entire school!"

"Shut UP—ooof!" Joe's frantic attacks had finally cost him as he had paid no attention to his defense. Bob had moved in while Joe was distracted by his anger and struck him twice in the same spot; a sliding right straight followed by a low left hook. Taking a step back, the blonde freshman glared at the Wolverine captain, "Hush, I'm talking now."

"Maybe you thought it made you untouchable somehow," Bob went on with his lecture, idly stepping back to avoid a vicious backhand. "All that so-called fame feeding your ego, causing you to grow more and more arrogant. A touch of assumption, now and then, to every situation that you encounter. I mean, what kind of a man jumps to conclusions and punches someone in the chest for just standing near his girlfriend? What kind of MAN blinds himself when it's OBVIOUS he's being manipulated by said girlfriend? What kind of a MAN allows his two friends to be involved in a man to man fight?" He paused momentarily to land one of his strongest punches to Miller's stomach, causing him to bend over and start coughing.

Stopping as if in deep thought, Bob tapped his chin, with his eyes turned heavenward as if seeking an answer. As if dissatisfied with none making itself known, he shrugged and returned his attention to a still recovering Joe. "Guess you never thought it was important, asking yourself such questions before. So let me tell you Miller, I've known a lot of people like you before and they all thought of themselves as real MEN. You know the type, you understand who I'm talking about, right? You see it every time you look in a mirror."

His body loudly protesting the abuse it was enduring, Joe managed to push the pain away and straightened up, curling his fingers into a tight fist. Unfortunately for him, Bob noticed this latest effort and did something about it in the form of a right cross that struck Joe on the cheek hard, and then delivered a quick one-two into his abdomen, sent him staggering a few steps back and to the left. A right straight snapped out and impacted squarely on Joe's forehead and snapped his head back while simultaneously

"Two, three," Bob commented off-handedly, keeping track of all the hits Joe's face had taken so far. He resumed his speech in a contempt-filled voice, "So, do we have an answer now? Just what kind of man are you, Miller? Have you figured it out yet? I've given you a lot of clues by now."

Bob waited a moment, then impatiently shook his head. "Hell, I guess I"ll have to tell you. You're such a damn clueless idiot, you have no idea what you're doing, much less who you are. You push people around, counting on your size and attempts at intimidation to see you through. You jumped into this fight half-cocked, arrogant, and hot-tempered and now see what you get?" He punctuated this with a shoulder slam that knocked Joe to the ground.

"What I'm trying to say is, you're a good for nothing BULLY! AND I HATE BULLIES!" proclaimed Bob, shouting at the top of his lungs. As if that were a battle cry, he leapt into action, seeing that Joe had already risen to his feet. He pummeled Miller in the gut with a series of rapid, tight underarm swings and stepped back, finishing up with a fierce blow across the right cheek that knocked his opponent down. "Four!" he shouted at last.

Joe, his mouth bleeding at the corner and his left eye beginning to swell shut, managed to push himself to a sitting position and gape at Bob blankly. The words he was hearing echoed throughout his skull, different from all the signals of pain emanating from his body. "Wh-what the hell are you t-talkin' about?" he muttered, dazed.

"Still with me? Oh, good," snarled Bob angrily, all the memories of him being picked on by various bullies in the past pushing his temper up. "You're such a pathetic loser you don't know how to treat people right! Your attitude stinks man! You're making other people's lives miserable and you don't even care! But you better watch out, one of these days, you're going to step on someone's toes, and you're going to find out that you bit off more than you could chew!" He paused, then said, "I guess it's just your bad luck that someone turned out to be me, huh?"

"True to your nature, you didn't know or didn't care who I was when you decided to hit me on that day we first met. You just thought that I was someone of no consequence, didn't you? Well, allow me to tell you something. I'm walking death! I'm an unmovable mountain! I'm the one knocking you down on your ass and I'm enjoying it!" True to his words, Bob was grinning like a maniac and his eyes were burning with joy.

Taking a moment to study his opponent's condition, it was clear to Parr that Miller was on his last legs. Bob told himself that he had to end it now; he had four other guys to fight with after all. Acting on his decision, Bob told Joe, "Don't tell me you give up already? I'm just beginning to warm up here. Come on, you said you were going to 'shut my big mouth up'! Well here I am, still talking and without any problems doing so!"

Bob didn't attack but proceeded to taunt, tease, and insult the battered Miller as the football captain stubbornly struggled to his feet once again. Finally, he succeeded, although shakily, and managed to bring up his fists in a weak approximation of a fighting pose.

"Impressive," Bob complimented his nearly beaten opponent. "You got some guts there, I'll give you that. But, I'll have to make this quick; I"ve got other people to entertain and I hate to keep them waiting." Bob looked Joe straight in the eye and told him in his most deadly serious voice, "This is going to the only time I'll tell you, so listen up. Starting from right now, leave me the hell alone, Miller, or otherwise, you won't like the consequences; the beating you recieved today will be nothing compared to what I'll do to you if you ever try to mess with me again in the future."

He paused for a moment to see if Miller had gotten his message. Well, better safe than sorry. "You understand me, Miller? We'll just leave each other alone and then everyone will be happy."

Staring balefully at his hated enemy, Joe spat a mixture of blood and saliva on the ground and said shakily, yet angrily, "Go to hell, Parr. I'm not gonna stop until I get even wi--."

The impact of a fist meeting jawbone interrupted him as Bob shut him up the quickest way he could. The tall blonde sighed, "Some people never learn. Five." Joe staggered back but somehow managed to remain standing.

"Okay, let's do it again, with more feeling," Bob commented, took his time and then threw a stronger left hook to the other side of Miller's jaw. For good measure, he prepared for yet another hook when--.

* * *

The other four Wolverines were quite unhappy at the moment. After all, seeing their highly regarded captain being beaten so effortlessly wasn't exactly something to be happy about. Tonan and Thompson were all set to rush in to ambush Parr, but Kreiger and Cohen held them back.

"Hey, c'mon man! Lemme go!" roared Thompson in anger, struggling to get free.

"Sorry bud, can't do that," stated Kreiger resolutely, though he looked as if he wanted to rush in there himself. "Joe will be pissed that we interrupted his fight, even if he's losing. You know how he is. Besides, there's the matter of the agreement he made with Parr."

"Screw that!" yelled Tonan, "Joe's getting pounded and that's all you can say? Damn it, let me go!" He twisted and turned, trying to break loose of Cohen's firm grasp. He caught a glance of the two combatants, and it was obvious that Joe was on his very last legs. Tonan's heart sank; he hadn't known about his old friend having a glass jaw until it was revealed to him the previous week. And now Parr was beginning to throw a series of punches aimed directly at Joe's jawline.

Tonan knew instinctively that it was all over for the captain of the Wolverines. His rage increased when he remembered the depressing fact that Joe hadn't landed a single solid hit. He had to do something!

But what?

* * *

"Hahaha! Lookit the faces on them, they gotta be pissin' mad!" exclaimed Lucius as he pointed over at Tonan and Thompson. He was enjoying this immensely; watching Miller get a complete, thorough beatdown was quite satisfying for some reason. What also made it better was, although Lucius wasn't close enough to hear the specifics, that Bob was clearly giving Miller a piece of his mind.

"Yeah, that's the way Blondie! Show that ass who's boss!" he cheered.

"Thank goodness it's still the first guy," muttered Sam as he watched the one-sided fight, er, slaughter. This WAS not a good start; hopefully one of the remaining four Wolverines would be able to bring Parr down for the count. Not that he had anything personal against him; he just plain didn't like to lose a bet.

Russ on the other hand was watching with growing respect for Bob's abilities. If the blonde was able to fight the remaining four Wolverines on this level, he and his cousin and Winters would each lose five dollars. Oh well, if that came about, then at least some good came out of the whole mess.

Scott's only reaction was to grunt in deep thought and adjust his eyeglasses.

It was then that Lucius noticed Ray Tonan suddenly break free of Cohen's hold and charge into the field. His eyes narrowed as the African American teenager immediately saw what his purpose was.

There was only one thing to do.

* * *

"Blondie, watch yer back!" a familiar voice yelled out, somehow managing to make itself heard over the noise of the gaggle of students.

Immediately recognizing Lucius's voice, Bob caught the meaning of the warning right away. He wasn't surprised at all; Joe wasn't the only one who'd learned from the previous fight. Bob had been alert for a possible ambush from the rear ever since the beginning. Anticipation churned up within him; it was a perfect opportunity to test out that Muay Thai technique his dad had taught him over the weekend.

The spinning backfist.

Moving quickly, Bob stepped in with his right foot and mentally aimed for Miller's left jaw. Bringing his right fist level to his chest, he took a deep breath, winding his upper body up while twisting at the hips. Then he spun around on his right leg, extending his right arm out like a flag pole and setting his fist vertically. As he rotated, his head caught a momentary glimpse of Tonan rushing towards him, an enraged look on his face. That was all he saw and his spin continued to complete a full 360 degrees.

Backfist met left jaw.

Result: Joe's consciousness, after such a long valiant struggle, finally decided it was a good time for some badly needed rest.

Translation: Joe promptly collapsed in a boneless heap.

"Seven," Bob huffed in satisfaction. Remembering the threat from behind, he swiveled around with his fists up defensively. Tonan was still running towards him and closing in fast. It looked like the Wolverine was planning on tackling Bob to the ground.

Bob was not an idiot and he knew that being on the end of Tonan's rush would seriously hurt. He had to think of something quick!

Two thoughts immediately sprang into life. One, he owed Lucius again a second time, and Two, he would something Tonan wouldn't expect him to do, or at least he hoped.

And there was no more time left for arguing with himself; Ray Tonan was less than ten feet away. Bob crouched and spread his arms to his side in a wrestling stance, making it look as if he would meet his Ray's charge head-on. There was no doubt in the crowd's minds that Bob was an idiot and would undoubtedly come out as getting the worst of the exchange.

That would've been true, but for one simple fact.

George Parr did not raise an idiot for a son.

Said son waited until the last minute. When Tonan was only four feet away, Bob threw himself to the side, rolled, and came to his feet in one smooth acrobatic move. He'd been correct; the Wolverine member hadn't been expecting him to do that.

When one hundred and seventy pounds of almost pure muscle (ten percent fat) starts going like a train, it's pretty damn hard to come to a sudden stop. Physics dictate otherwise, even if brakes are involved. The simple fact of the matter is, Tonan, once he got going, was hard pressed to come to a halt. Especially when he didn't know that he would need to.

But he did eventually come to halt, and was halfway in turning around when Bob Parr smashed into him from behind. It seemed that the distance Tonan had overshot his target (Bob) was sufficient to give said would-be target a good running start to perform a tackle that would do any pro football player proud.

"Back at'cha!" yelled out Bob as their two bodies collided into each other.

Once again not expecting that sort of move on Bob's part, Tonan was completely caught off guard, and he went down like a sack of rice. Bob's tackle had all the effect hoped for; his opponent's breath had been blasted out of his lungs. George's son was grinning wildly; he had all the advantage and wisely chose to capitulate on it.

Maneuvering himself so he sat on top of Tonan's chest, Bob slammed a hard right down onto the Wolverine's solar plexus, ensuring further that his opponent's breath wouldn't come back yet. He gave a loud laugh of triumph and retracted his fist, aimed higher, and proceeded to pound the utter crap out of his helpless opponent.

* * *

"Yeah, yeah, that's the way Blondie! Kick that foo's ass!" cheered Lucius as he punched the air excitedly. Beside his skinny cousin, Sam, who had temporarily forgotten about the gamble he and his cousin had made with the blonde-haired boy, was whooping loudly in support of Bob. Russ ignored both of his cousins, he just looked at the scene with calculating eyes, trying to see if Tonan would at least fight back.

"The hell, is there nothing that Parr can't do?" asked Scott in growing amazement and respect. "He's beating this second guy more easily than he did the captain!"

The rest of the Bernard High students present had all gathered closer to watch this unexpected turn of events. About half of them were freshmen, some of whom had been rejected when they'd tried out for the Wolverines, were cheering Bob on, yelling their support. The other half was comprised of pro-Wolverine individuals; other members of the Wolverines (who weren't involved in the fight), a good number of sophomores and juniors who were, more or less, fans of the football team. To this half, Ray Tonan was considered a very good tackler, and even better at avoiding such. To witness him getting tackled from behind was perhaps the second most depressing shocks and letdowns of the day, the first being the defeat of Wolverine Captain Joe Miller.

And there were those who expected better, who expected a fairer fight from one of the Wolverines. From them came howls of "Coward! ", "Cheater!", and "Serves you right, trying to attack from behind!"

Without voicing it, everyone knew that should the blonde-haired freshman emerge victorious (something that was growing slightly possible), the events of that day would dramatically change the Wolverines, if not Bernard High, in a way that could well be irreversible.

And a single person would be at the top of it all, Robert Parr.

* * *

The person who could be at the top of it all was on top of HIS current situation, literally.

Bob had a great time, methodically punching Ray Tonan in several strategic areas on the face. The other boy's face was a bloody mess and his nose was already broken, red liquid streaming down his face and staining the grass. His eyes were on the verge of swelling shut and Tonan himself was on the verge of unconsciousness.

After merely two minutes of fist-meeting-face, with a final blow to the right jaw, it was finished. Nodding his head in satisfaction, Bob confidently stood up and walked away, knowing that the Wolverine was down for the count. The blonde had taken pity on the older boy and had purposely avoided loosening any teeth. He'd concentrated his shots on the cheeks, jaw, and eyes. The thought had occured to him that if their positions had been reversed, Tonan would've not been so merciful as Bob had been. It didn't matter to Bob though, that wasn't his preferred way of doing things. He'd gotten the job done, that was what counted. He shrugged away any more thoughts on the matter and then began to get his breathing under control, to try and regain some of that energy he'd used up in the fight with Miller, and then Tonan.

Turning to face the three remaining Wolverines, who were talking amongst each other, Bob stood there silently, wisely choosing not to spend any energy unnecessarily by shouting threats or taunts. He wished that he didn't talk as much as he did with Miller, but there was nothing to be done about that. All he could do now was wait for his next victim...errr...opponent.

It seemed Lady Luck was with him. As he watched them, he realized that Cohen, Kreiger and Thompson weren't talking to each other. In fact, he could've sworn that they were arguing...?

* * *

"Hell noooo. And I mean that, haaaayuuullll nooooo! I ain't going next!" exclaimed red-headed Pete Thompson. He couldn't admit it, but from his behaviour, it was fairly obvious to his two friends that he was close to panicking. A far cry from that Sunday morning in the park when he was all fired up for getting revenge.

"C'mon Pete, don't be such a chicken! You're taller than that Parr; you can take him!" That scolding came from Robert Cohen, who did his best to hide his fear behind his words of encouragement towards Thompson. After seeing what Parr was capable of, all of Cohen's enthusiasm for this fight had grown wings and swiftly flown away.

Pete shook his shaggy head furiously. "Nuthin' doin'! Dat guy's a monsta, I tell ya! He played around with Joe and then took 'im out wit' no truble at all! The Cap'n wuz nuthin' to im! And heck, Ray didn't even have a chance ta throw a single punch! Dat's all the reason I need ta let me know dat there's no chance in hell I'm gonna fight him!" Pete was mad that this Parr guy scared him but unfortunately his fear was much stronger than his anger and thus held him in check.

Quarterback Kreiger was stunned speechless. In all the years he'd known Joe Miller, Kreiger had thought the Wolverine captain unbeatable. Sure there was all that talk about how Parr had knocked Miller out last week, but Kreiger had dismissed it without a second thought. He didn't believe it, and had assumed that Parr had help in last week's fight. But now, after seeing Parr beat Joe with so little effort, he could not deny it the fact that the rumours had been true. He, like Thompson and Cohen, felt very uncomfortable with the fact that Bob Parr turned out to be something they had never encountered before.

At the same time, all three felt a most uneasy feeling grow in the pits of their stomachs. It was obvious to them that every one of them had badly underestimated their opponent. At the beginning, the Wolverines thought that Parr was crazy or simply lacked any sort of sense. They'd laughed and made jokes about his sanity, all the while planning to stomp him but good. They all believed that Parr would either chicken out, or just avoid coming to school altogether. They never expected Parr to challenge them outright, but still took it in stride. After all, who in the world could fight and win against five football players, right? It should've been a cinch, an easy lesson for the Wolverines to 'teach'.

But it wasn't. And the result was that the three of them were rattled, stopped in their tracks, and were questioning the wisdom of setting themselves against Parr.

Then, almost by a miracle, they eventually became painfully aware of several of the comments their audience was shouting at them.

"C'mon Cohen show us your stuff!"

"What's the matter with you three? Scared?"

"He's only one guy! Go on, Thompson, kick his nuts!"

"The Wolverines are all chickenshit!"

"All right Parr! Show 'em who's boss! Kick all their asses to the moon!"

"Yellow-bellied, lily livered faggots!"

"Move it you idiots! You afraid of him or what?"

"Hey Quarterback, do something you little coward!"

At the beginning, many of the students who'd chosen to stay after school and watch the fight didn't really expect Bob to last that long. They were surprised and shocked at Bob's easy victory over Joe, who had been thought as one of the toughest guys on campus. When Bob had started smashing his second opponent Tonan into the ground, that was when his fellow freshmen started to seriously support him.

And now judging from the ratio of insults growing, it seemed that more of the upperclassmen were starting to become rather dubious. With two Wolverines lying still unconscious on the field and the remaining three obviously arguing but not fighting, it was kind of hard not to be.

Cohen, Thompson and Kreiger had to make a decision soon. The crowd was slowly, but eventually, growing more and more anti-Wolverine by the minute. Bob was still resting, silently grateful for the unexpected breather for he still had a long way to go before fully recovering from the previous two fights.

Wincing at the insults, Kreiger decided right there and then he'd had enough. The Wolverine QB stopped listening, thinking, or speaking; he just acted. Freed from the shock of seeing his captain get beaten down by the crowd's outcries, a gradual rage had begun to build within him. While the three of them were standing there like a couple of retards, Parr was making a mockery out of the Wolverines fighting spirit! The team's reputation was at stake! He snorted derisively at his two teammates; the idiots were still arguing, so he decided to go ahead and leave them be. What a bunch of useless wimps!

John Kreiger stepped forward, a determined snarl visible on his lean face. He raised his right hand and pointed it at straight at Bob. In a loud voice, he declared, "Okay tough guy, I'm up next!"

The freshman replied, "Oh good, I was getting was bored just standing here waiting for you guys to stop wimping out."

Kreiger seethed at the reply, and replied almost against his will, "That was a pretty good move, bushwacking Ray like that. Well, you won't be pulling that trick on me, I can promise you that." His anger crawled back and washed away a good portion of the unease that was there earlier.

The quarterback wasn't surprised when Thompson and Cohen immediately quit arguing as soon as they heard Kreiger's words and kept silent. He'd no doubt that they were thanking their lucky stars that they didn't have to fight at the moment. In fact, he was surprised that they hadn't run away yet.

Parr shrugged and said, "I won't need to. Tonan just needed to be taught a lesson about attacking from behind. You don't look that stupid though."

Kreiger smiled thinly, "I'm not. Well, shall we go at it?"

Bob lifted an eyebrow and smirked in return. "Sure." He started towards Kreiger with his fists raised. Both of the boys knew that time for talking had ended.

Kreiger went to meet him.

* * *

For a moment, George's son had hoped that Kreiger would be dumb enough to try and pull a risky move like Tonan had done, but no such luck. It looked like he'd have to do this the hard way. Bob shrugged; well he had no problems with that. His recent victories had given his confidence a real boost. There was also the fact that Cohen and Thompson looked like as if they weren't that willing to match fists with him. Heck, even Kreiger had an air of a sort of cautious resignment about him, though he seemed determined enough.

The yelling of the crowd having died down minutes ago, the two combatants steadily advanced towards each other. Bob waded in fearlessly, ready to fight, while Kreiger's was a bit more slower. Having seen what Parr was capable of, the Wolverine wasn't about to rush in like a fool, unlike a certain teammate of his. No sirree, he was adamant about playing it safe; maybe he could wear Bob out somehow. After all, the blonde freshman just had to be tired after his last two fights, if they could be called that. 'Complete domination' was the term Kreiger would have used.

A jab rushing towards his face quickly snapped Kreiger out of his thoughts. He ducked back, however the jab had been only a feint, used by Parr to buy time to step in range for his real attack, a right straight.

Kreiger frantically threw his head to the left, dodging it with inches to spare, and sidestepping, trying to get around Bob. If he hadn't seen that tactic used on his captain, it was possible it would have connected with his chin.

Bob frowned as he matched his opponent's movements, keeping Kreiger in front of him at all times; it seemed that Kreiger had paid careful attention during his first fight. "Awright," he murmured under his breath, "let's see how you deal with this."

With that, Bob suddenly attacked again. A double snapping right jab to get Kreiger's range, followed by a roundhouse and a low right hook were fired off, all of which were accompanied by the blonde stepping in with his upper body hunched over and forward.

His opponent managed to avoid the first two blows by sidestepping to his left (and in doing so also avoided the third by pure luck), but let out a small squeak as the right hook, which would have struck him in the kidney area if he hadn't moved, connected squarely with his chest. Pain flared in the area of impact but it wasn't blinding; in fact, Kreiger forced it away and quickly counterattacked.

Knocking Parr's outstretched arm away with his left, it was the Wolverine's turn to step in and throw a right straight.

Bob was caught off guard; he didn't expect such a quick reaction. All he could do was turn his head to the left, letting his cheek (and not his nose) take the force of the strike. The strength behind the blow was suprising and unexpected, causing him to be rocked back on his heels, losing his balance temporarily. The experience made his respect for his opponent to grow a bit more. Kreiger was stronger than he looked, much stronger; he had a good right arm, which made sense as he probably had to use it to throw the football long distances.

Temporarily was apparently enough for Kreiger, who eagerly grasped the advantage. He hammered Parr in the stomach with a hard underarm left swing, slammed a right roundhouse to the jaw, and a quick left straight to the chin, knocking Parr's head back.

The recipient of all those blows was stunned temporarily, and a message flashed from his body to his brain, helping him analyze the situation.

Bob's body: "Red Alert! We just got punched three times!"

Bob's brain: "DUH!"

Bob's body: "Look out Brain, incoming!"

While the teen was having this enlightening conversation with himself, Kreiger pushed his attack, mightily encouraged by the success of his initial hits. Surging forward, he was intent on knocking Parr out (or trying to anyways) with the followup strikes, a thudding left jab and a high riding hook that impacted above Parr's left eye, causing the skin to break and blood to flow.

The damage done was serious and painful, as well as causing Bob to see white spots before his eyes. Although he'd rested as best he could after Tonan, he was still more than little spent. Even though Bob hadn't been hit once in his two fights, he had wasted a good amount of energy that hadn't been recovered when he'd rested.

Despite that, despite the blows to the face, despite the fact that Kreiger was surprisingly stronger than he looked and a decent fighter to boot, despite all of it, Bob Parr was far from finished. Though not moving as quickly or as energetically as he had earlier when the marathon fight started, the pain spiked his anger, which in turn flooded his system with adrenaline.

The QB was halfway in executing a right hook when something exploded against the side of his face. Stunned, he didn't know what hit him and that cost him as a low uppercut caught him in the belly, forcing him to stumble back. It was then he suddenly grasped what was happening; somehow Parr had managed to recover from his hits far faster than expected, and now the freshman was retaliating.

Gritting his teeth in anger, Bob went for Kreiger. He wanted revenge for those blows he'd taken, he wanted to make the Wolverine hurt, cry out in pain, and beg for mercy. He'd show him true agony now! Thus infused with newfound anger, Bob proceeded to explode in a fury of hooks and jabs.

Said Wolverine saw the look in Parr's eyes and something there told him to instantly bring up his defenses, which he did. That turned out to be a wise decision one second later as his opponent's offense flurry brought itself to bear, although a bit slower than expected. But Kreiger didn't panic and kept his cool; he'd knew better from watching Joe's fight. By backing up and putting his forearms, the quarterback managed to weather the storm. Sweat cascaded down his face as he fervently concentrated on keeping those punishing fists at bay.

His arms and shoulders would be one big bruise by tomorrow, Kreiger knew, but that was a small price to pay. He kept alert, knocking aside a roundhouse, ducking and bobbing, on the lookout for anything that would help him, anything he could turn to his advantage.

A couple of seconds later, he got it. Parr had grown careless in his anger and consequently his attacks were loosening up, leaving openings in his defenses. Carefully calculating, Kreiger patiently waited for Bob to overextend himself. He wasn't forced to wait long; Parr swung a powerful looping roundhouse that Kreiger immediately ducked. Bob was off balance for a single, crucial moment.

Like a human jack-in-the-box, Kreiger popped back up, delivering a quick right handed uppercut that forced Parr back. An eager gleam in his eyes, Kreiger moved on to continue.

Trying to shake off the effects, Bob struggled to put up his forearms but didn't quite make it. A combination of blows fell upon him, courtesy of Kreiger and despite his best efforts, several slipped past his guard. Smirking, Kreiger began yelling out several insults and waded in confidently. He continued his attack by launching a combination of quick, light jabs and slow, heavy blows, throwing in a few more feints to make things interesting.

It was only thanks to his boxing regimen and many hours of training with his dad that Bob was able to defend against more than half of them. He didn't dare counterattack though, and chose to focus almost exclusively on blocking. He wasn't entirely successful at that either. Once he fell for a feint and rolled his head to the side, just in time to get his left cheek solidly introduced to Kreiger's fist. It knocked his head back and caused him some extreme discomfort, but Bob doggedly ignored it and continued on.

It was obvious to everyone watching that Kreiger held the advantage of entering the fight fresh. He was trying everything he could to pressure Bob Parr into making a mistake but so far, the freshman was doing a pretty decent job at blocking Kreiger's offense.

A right straight, a left underarm swing, a combination cross and jab; Kreiger attacked again and again in determination. He knew his momentum was building, and was rapidly gaining the upperhand. Parr's defenses were beginning to fail as more and more punches got through. Every wince of pain from Parr heartened and encouraged Kreiger so he increased the tempo of his attacks accordingly.

Bob was losing and he knew it. He didn't like that, it angered him, so he worked his mind, trying to think of a way to quickly win. He knew that whatever he came up with, it would have to be done quick. He was growing tired quickly, his arms, although bandaged, were sore from struck, and his muscles were protesting the strain he was putting them through.

Then an idea came upon him. It was very risky and had a ten percent chance of working but Bob didn't have any better ideas at the moment.

Talk about pressure.

Calling upon his flagging reserves, George's son glared at his opponent, knocked aside a right hook, and, before a second attack could arrive, threw a roundhouse of his own. If it had been any faster, it would've caught the target napping, but as it was, Kreiger ducked.

That was a mistake.

The football player discovered too late that he'd been faked out. Parr had staked everything on Kreiger ducking and so was already executing the first part of his final attack. A rising uppercut appeared out of nowhere and caught Kreiger right under the jaw. The force behind it had blown Kreiger's head back so forcefully that the Wolverine was looking up at the sky.

His entire front was wide open.

It was perfect. Bob gathered all of his remaining strength, bent down, and cocked his right fist back. Then before Kreiger could regain his senses enough to move or dodge out of the way, with a loud cry, Bob charged forward and drove his most powerful blow he could fiercely into Kreiger's wide open stomach.

The results were incredible.

Kreiger's upper body hunched over, his face turning green and his eyes bulging as the strength behind the prodigious punch lifted him off his feet, sending him flying three feet backwards. Upon landing on the ground, the QB instantly rolled over on his stomach, rose unsteadily on his knees and began vomiting uncontrollably, yellowish puke spewing from his mouth.

"Yuck!" exclaimed Bob as he returned to a normal standing position. The other Bernard High students followed with similar sentiments while the other Wolverines started cursing and swearing angrily. Ignoring all the background noises, Bob looked at the battered Joe in surprise and commented, "Damn, I didn't mean to hit him THAT hard."

It was true, and he felt a little guilty for doing so. But what was done was done, and most importantly, Kreiger was definitely out of the fight.

That point was proven mere seconds later when he collapsed facefirst in his own pile of vomit. Bob backed up a few steps and let his clenched fists fall back to his sides as he relaxed and let his breathing slow down from his exertions. He hurt all over, was extremely tired, and was almost drained of all his energy. What he really wanted to do at the moment was to collapse to the ground and close his eyes, but unfortunately he wasn't finished yet. There were still two more people to fight, and although the thought of even throwing one more punch seemed an impossible task, Bob's pride refused to allow him to give up or show weakness. He'd come this far, it'd be a shame to walk away! Somewhere in the back of his mind which wasn't concerned with his fatigue, mind numbing weariness, or shortness of breath, he congratulated himself on a job well done, at least so far.

Three guys down, heck, that wasn't such a bad performance. Then the blonde freshman suddenly remembered about a similar victory last week. He smiled grimly and muttered to himself, "Gosh, seems like ages ago. Huh, wonder who's next?"

Gingerly wiping the blood dripping down his face, Bob somehow resisted the urge to touch his newly acquired wounds. Through pure determination, he managed to stay upright and pasted an angry expression on his face. Maybe he could psyche them out; at this point, he'd take any advantage he could. Gathering the remnants of his flagging energy, he started walking towards the remaining two Wolverines, albeit slowly.

Towards Robert Cohen and Peter Thompson.

* * *

Two people witnessed the brutality of Parr's final attack, and their respect of him increased.

So did their apprehension.

"Holy cow! Lookit wut he did ta John! Gross man! Parr doesn't take any prisoners!" babbled Thompson, on the edge of losing control.

"Shut up! I saw what he did, I'm not blind!" retorted Cohen harshly, though he too felt very uneasy and fearful of the prospect of facing off against the freshman.

To say that the two Wolverines were intimidated was an understatement. Thompson had turned pale, while Cohen was sweating profusely. They looked at each other and instantly began stammering out half completed and hardly understandable sentences.

"To hell with Miller's agreement, if we gang up--"

"Oh crap, lookit the beatdown he gave ta John! It was much worse than--"

"--on him, we might be able to beat him--"

"--that of Joe's! Man, I sure don't wanna end up pukin' on the field--"

"--good and through. Listen, I've got an idea --"

"--I ain't never gonna live it down, doin' sumthin' like dat in front of ev'ryone--"

"--How about you distract him from the front while I--"

"--so I'm sorry buddy, but I fer one sure don't want my face ta be re'rranged today cuz my girl sure won't like it when we go 'a smoochin--"

"--circle around Parr and attack him from behind--"

"--which is sumthin' I luv ta do, so I'm reaaaally sorry 'bout all this but I'll just--"

"--that way we'll keep him off guard, wear him down, and eventually we'll win! So Rob, what do you say to that, huh?"

"--say my goodbyes fer now an' I'll see ya later!"

With that, Peter Thompson, proud linebacker of the Wolverine football team, gave a quick salute to his good friend Robert Cohen, turned around and ran like the wind.

Stunned by his good friend Peter Thompson's abrupt departure, Robert Cohen's mouth fell open and he stared stupidly at his so-called friend's rapidly diminishing figure as Thompson hightailed it out of there. And then he overcame his shock and the inevitable anger at being abandoned sprang up. "Hey, you stupid coward! Come back here, you jerk! I'll kill you Thompson! Get back here and help me!"

But either Thompson failed to hear him, or just plain didn't want to listen, the result was the same. Realizing the futility of further shouting, Cohen rubbed his forehead and complained, "Oh great, what else can go wrong today?"

As if in answer, from behind him a voice called out, "Ready or not, here I come!"

* * *

Bob tried not to show it, but he was very relieved when he saw Thompson running away. The odds against him had narrowed considerably, in fact, had been cut in half. That was good; Bob wasn't at all that certain he could withstand a prolonged fight against two more opponents, but against a single one, his chances looked pretty decent, even in the shape he was in.

Quickly a simple plan formed in his head. He would have to concentrate fully on defensive maneuvers like he did with Miller, except without the talking. He would have to conserve his energy as much as possible by blocking instead of dodging. The layer of cloth wrapped around his forearms would definitely come in handy then. He would have to draw Cohen in, let him get overconfident, and then suddenly go on the offensive when the Wolverine least expected it to happen.

Bob grimaced. Simple in theory, extremely difficult in practice. He was hurt, his face was bleeding (a little, but still bleeding), his arms felt like they were going to fall out of their sockets, and a hundred other things. But Bob was certain of one thing; he was going to walk out of this field holding his head high in victory. There was no other ending he would accept.

Bellowing in a voice that everyone could hear, he took a line from one of his favorite games when he was a kid.

"Ready or not, here I come!"

It was time to finish this.

"Hahaha, that li'l chickenshit! He'll never be able ta show his ugly mug 'round school now!" Lucius laughed in exultation.

Lucius's two cousins, along with Scott Winters, were all guffawing, Russ a bit ruefully. It was clear to them that there was a very good chance of them losing the bet, but watching Bob squash or scare away his opponents one by one was very entertaining. The trio were now convinced that Lucius's story of what had happened the past week was true. How could they not be? There was proof happening right in front of their eyes.

Their fellow students, at least those who were in support of Bob, were shouting and cheering madly. Those in favor of the Wolverines were either quiet or loudly cursing the football team for being so weak.

Hearing his name being chanted in praise lifted Bob's spirits, although he still had doubts about being able to beat the last one. Still, all that support helped encourage him and renewed his determination to emerge victorious. Wearily raising his fists for what seemed to be the hundredth time that day, he forced himself to move slowly towards Cohen. He fervently hoped that Cohen would think it was due to caution, rather than an effort to waste as little energy as possible.

For his part, Robert Cohen was trapped between two equally opposing desires. He wanted to run away, just like Thompson had done, and save himself a beating. On the other hand, to do such a chickenshit thing was almost unbearable to think about. What was he supposed to do? He eyed an approaching Parr with some apprehension. Despite his three finished fights, the freshman didn't look that tired (a deliberate effort on Bob's part) and was probably still capable of handling at least one more.

Unfortunately for Cohen, there had been had one thing he'd been keeping secret from everyone else, including his teammates.

He didn't have any experience in fighting at all. Tackling in football was one thing, and he was in great shape, but he'd never thrown a serious punch at anyone before. From that point of view, it was understandable to see why Cohen was scared and considering to beat a hasty retreat. Bob Parr was obviously very experienced in fighting, and it made Cohen extremely hesitant in taking up the challenge.

The only reason why he'd joined the other four was because he assumed that between Thompson, Miller, Kreiger and Tonan, they would have worn Parr down and eventually defeat him. They were eager to fight so Cohen would be more than happy to let them go first. But now, since all his assumptions had turned out to be wrong, Cohen had to make a decision.

Fight or flee?

* * *

Bob was amused to see the indecision in Cohen's eyes as the Wolverine visibly struggled whether to run away or stay and fight. George's son wouldn't admit it, but he sincerely hoped for the former. If it weren't for his stubbornness, he would've fallen over as soon as he knocked Kreiger out. If Cohen chose to stay, well, Bob would just have to do the best he could to survive.

At the moment, he was in front of Cohen, standing five feet away with fists clenched at his side, and patiently waiting to see what his opponent would do. Although grateful for the chance to rest and catch his breath, he kept alert. No telling what would happen, especially after Tonan's attempted ambush.

A few seconds later, his caution paid off when suddenly a right fist struck out at him.

Decision made, Cohen committed himself and followed up with several more wild swings. He was delighted to see that two of them managed to strike Parr in the face and chest. Of course, such an early success encouraged him and he sprang forward, a gleeful smirk on his face. 'Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all', he thought.

And that was the last thing he remembered thinking as darkness, along with eight painful impacts, seized him.

While Robert Cohen fell backwards unconscious, Bob dropped his fist wearily after throwing a right hook. He snorted weakly; Cohen had thrown a whole lot of wild punches and seemed not to have a clue of what he was doing. Bob had fought several guys like that in his old elementary school and had instantly known what to do. He'd left himself open and had intentionally let himself get hit. As he'd expected, Cohen had grown overly reckless and had jumped in. That was when Bob had called up the last of his strength and pounded him systematically in the stomach and face, desperately hoping that would be enough.

Luckily enough, it had been.

Falling to his knees in exhaustion, Bob raised his right fist in the air and shouted in triumph. The crowd echoed him, praised and cheered him for battling successfully against all odds. Despite the aches and pains all reminding him of their presence, he'd never felt better. The sweet glow of victory filled him, enveloped his entire being. He'd accomplished the impossible and a great pride settled over him, even as he slumped to the ground for some much needed rest. After so much work and effort, he'd finally come out on top.

The winner.

End Chapter Three, Part Three

Author's Notes:

Yaaaaaaaaayyyyy! All right Bob! Four out of five, not bad huh?

Boy am I glad this chapter is over! Felt like my brain was on overload or something :D I will admit that I was a bit lazy when I wrote Cohen's part, but since I wrote about him having such a hard time against Kreiger, I decided to give Bob a break. Hence, Thompson running away and Cohen being, ummm, a pushover.

Now, I could have written fight scenes for Tonan, Thompson, and Cohen but it would have been a bit too repetitive (Bob takes on opponent, Bob barely beats opponent) and a bit boring to read. And frankly, I did map out five separate fighting scenes for each of the Wolverines but it grew too boring for me, so I decided to spice things up a bit.

And now, for some bad news, (no, I'm not gonna stop writing this), I'm going to take some time off the Secret Origins in order to work on some of my other fics. But no worries, Chapter four will be here...eventually!

I'll rely on you guys to email me reminders at (and suggestions if you like) about doing work on chapter 4 so I won't forget, okay? Thanks and see ya!


	7. Chapter 4 Preview

Disclaimer:

I'd be crazy to suggest that I owned the Incredibles so I don't. However, I DO own all the original characters that never existed in the movie.

----------------------

The Secret Origins of Mr. Incredible  
A "The Incredibles" fanfic  
Chapter 4: Preview  
By Darksoar  
E-mail: half the kids at Bernard High, Bob Parr wasn't much for cursing or swearing, but at the moment, he felt that the situation was appropriate for it.

"#$$#! My face feels like it's been between a hammer and a nail! Damn, it hurts!"

In contrast, walking beside him and whistling cheerfully, Lucius Best seemed oblivious to his newfound friend's agony.

"Yup sure looks like it frum where I stand. Heh, I'll betcha won't be comin' ta school fer another cupla' days, at least. Haha, this'll make it twice in lit'le more than a week! Bro, yer sumthin' else, ya know that?"

Bob was about to scowl at his friend, but his bruised face reminded him that it wasn't a good idea. He reluctantly settled for ignoring Lucius's remark and concentrated on setting one foot in front of the other.

It was an hour after the marathon fight against the Wolverines, and he was almost completely drained of energy. His muscles ached and complained continually, letting him know that they were not happy at all with the current state of things.

However, as miserable as Bob felt, the fact that he had once again come out on top of his enemies, the Wolverines, enabled him to ignore some of the pain. Despite that, he wanted to get home as soon as possible in order to shower and then get some well deserved sleep.

The uninvolved members of the Wolverines who had witnessed the fight would've undoubtedly mobbed the Bob, but fortunately enough, it never happened. The school's vice principal had seen the gathering of students and had gone out to see what was going on. Luckily, she'd noticed it only a few minutes after the fight had ended.

A couple of students had caught sight of her approaching the field and had quickly spread the word. Under the direction of Lucius, a very impressed trio consisting of Simon, Russ and Sam had grabbed up Bob between them and had hustled him off the campus.

Two blocks later, the five of them had stopped to catch their breath. Once that was done, they'd agreed that it was getting late and heading home was probably a good idea. Despite Bob's protests, Lucius had told Bob that he was going with him to make sure that Bob wouldn't fall asleep halfway to his house or something.

Bob didn't argue that strongly because quite simply, he lacked the energy to do so. Indeed, deep inside, he was grateful; he knew his limits well enough that there was a very good chance that he wouldn't be able to make it all the way to his house unless someone helped him.

After his mom had died, the young Parr had grown up with father. In Bob's opinion, George was the world's greatest dad, and a terrific role model, but he was still a man, and as such, lacked a mother's touch.

As a consequence, Bob had grown up a bit stubborn and independent as possible, which included being accustomed to doing things by himself. He wasn't used to asking people for help; if they did him a favor like Lucius had done, he would make sure to return the favor as soon as possible. He didn't much like owing other people or being in their debt.

But Lucius Best was turning out to be something of an exception. Somehow Bob instinctively knew that Lucius wasn't the type of person who was always looking to get an advantage or a hold over other people. Even though the two of them had only known each other for less than a week, it felt like they had been friends for years.

Upon dwelling upon that, it was a bit puzzling, but Bob shrugged and decided not to bother much with it, odd and awkward though it was. He felt that he could trust Lucius, and to his point of view, that was more than enough to convince him.

The Wolverines; Cohen, Kreiger, Stiller, Thompson, and Millers. He couldn't believe that he'd beaten them all single-handedly. Well, almost all of them. Thompson had turned yellow and had run off. But still, that didn't change the fact that what he'd done today was, simply put, amazing. A glow of pride settled down upon his shoulders; despite the ache and pains all over his body, he felt good about himself.

What he'd just done just might be some sort of record, he suddenly realized. After all, he'd never heard anyone his age accomplish successfully what he'd just done.

A smug grin decorated Bob's face, which faded away a second later because of the bruises on his face. He wanted to strut proudly down the block, but unfortunately his current condition flatly denied permission.

The idea of a hot shower and his bed sounded like heaven.

Lucius, however, easily picked up on Bob's feelings and said as much. "I'll betch'a feelin' pretty good 'bout yerself, ain't cha?"

A momentary smirk appeared on the bigger boy's face and he told Lucius what he thought of his own accomplishment.

"You've got a point there Blondie," Lucius agreed.

"It's Bob," the blonde corrected with a mocking glare.

"Blondie fits you better," Lucius persisted.

"Bob."

"Blondie."

The two of them continued arguing in this good-natured fashion as they walked on.

"Well, Lucius, this is it. My home sweet home."

"Beautiful," Lucius replied, obviously unimpressed. He had a good reason too; except for the dark blue color, Bob's house looked exactly the same as the others in his neighborhood.

Bob would have replied but then he remembered that he was dead-tired and REALLY needed to rest ASAP. He turned to Lucius and said, "Um, look, Lucius –."

Lucius interrupted him by holding up a hand and shook his head. "I gotcha man. I'll stop by later when yer feelin' up ta it, aight? Now guess I'll take off now and so I'll catch ya later tomorrow, that is, IF yer gonna be at school."

Bob grinned wryly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, I'm not sure about that," he confessed. It was right then he came to a startling realization.

"Oh geez," Bob moaned, "I don't know if I wanna go back to Bernard High with my face looking like roadkill."

Lucius chuckled. He playfully swatted Bob on shoulder and said, "See ya, man."

Bob lightly punched him on the arm in return. "Yeah, hopefully not tomorrow," he remarked optimistically.

* * *

Two hours later, while sleeping blissfully in his room, Bob was abruptly woken up by a large hand shaking his shoulder insistently.

"Whaa ---, who?" he mumbled dazedly, a little annoyed at being woken up so soon. Wasn't it just a few minutes ago that his head had just touched the pillow? With superhuman effort, he cracked open his eyes and saw who his tormentor was.

"Oh, hey Dad, just got home?" he asked, saying the first thing that came to mind.

"'Bout thirty minutes ago," George Parr admitted, looking intently at his son's colorful face. "You look like Hell," he commented blandly, lifting his eyebrows in an unasked question.

In his half-coherent state, Bob muttered, "Yeah, yeah, so what'd ya want?"

His father asked him, "Did you take them?"

Bob blearily gazed up at George's face and said, "Yup."

"Did the school catch you in the act?"

"Nope."

His curiosity satisfied, George chuckled and rubbed his son's shoulder affectionately and with fatherly pride. "Good boy, now go back to sleep."

"Thanks Dad," were the last words Bob uttered before sleep reclaimed him.

* * *

A couple of neighborhoods away, in her room on her king-sized bed on the second floor in a two story house where she and her parents lived, Jenny Watkins was most definitely not happy.

In fact, in her own opinion, ever since the afternoon, her day had utterly SUCKED.

Seeing your boyfriend and some of his teammates get beaten down by one -ONE- guy kind of fell in the categories of "extremely humiliating" and "incredibly depressing." Thus, it wasn't completely surprising that she hated a certain Bob Parr with everything she had.

Contrary to what everyone at school believed, Jenny was with Joe Miller primarily because she loved him and not just because of the popularity (though that was very nice). She had just come back from Joe's house after carefully tending to his injuries.

Thank goodness that the other Wolverines who hadn't gotten involved had quickly picked up their unconscious teammates and had gotten out of the school's campus with all available speed.

For the second time in less than a week's worth of days, her pride and her love had been wounded, bruised. Last week, she was ready to go head-hunting for Parr but Joe had promised her that he would for sure be victorious in the inevitable rematch. But as events had just proved, he'd been unable to keep that promise, which only added to her anger.

When she'd been at Joe's house, the beginnings of a plot to get revenge for Joe, and herself as well, had slowly formed. After coming home and thinking about it, refining it for an hour, Jenny was certain that it was perfectly workable.

"Robert Parr, you'll get yours! I swear that you will," she laughed out loud to herself, incidentally sounding like an evil female villain from a cartoon. Reaching over to the desk at the right side of the bed, Jenny picked up the phone and dialed a number.

When the other side picked up, she said, "Hello? Yeah, this is Jenny Watkins; remember that favor that you owe me?"

* * *

At his house, Joe Miller wasn't having a good night.

Despite all his efforts, he couldn't get to sleep simply because of the pain from his collective bruises. For the umpteenth time that night, he started roundly cursing Bob Parr.

The volume of his swearing got so loud that eventually his dad Tom opened his door and threw a book at him, ordering Joe to quiet down.

* * *

Back at his house, Bob rolled over and sneezed twice in his sleep.

* * *

At that exact moment, several miles away to the north, in an average town called Irving, a fight was taking place in the local park. A tall, imposing figure of 6'3, wearing a long, dark brown coat and black jeans was squaring off against an even bigger opponent, a street punk and an enforcer ofthe Bloodbats.

Around ten members of saidgang had already fallen victim to the newcomer. Their unconscious bodies sprawled in awkward looking positions all around the park.

The enforcer, a 6'6 scarred-faced, bald-headed hulking brute roared in anger and swung a vicious haymaker at his opponent's face.

Said opponent merely smirked, reached up with his left hand and casually caught the punch in one smooth move. The gang member's eyes bulged in disbelief as he tried to pull his fist free; when his efforts failed, a hint of fear began to show in his eyes. That was soon replaced by a pained look as he realized that his fist was slowly being pressured by his opponent's grip.

"Ow-owww! Okay, okay, okay OKAY! Enough man! I give up already! C'mon leggo! Uncle! Uncle! You win, man, you win! Lemme go already! Argggghhh!"

As the pressure slowly grew, the gang member sank to his knees, unable to think of doing anything else except of the bone-crushing pain. The agony grew to the point that his brown eyes started tearing up.

"Hmph, pathetic," his tormentor commented with disdain. "And here I thought you might be more of a … challenge," he admitted in some disappointment, shaking his head.

The punk couldn't say anything except to continue whining out loud on how bad the pain was.

The man wearing the dark brown coat shrugged and said, "Huh, I'll guess I'll put you out of your misery. You're not worth my time at all." So saying, he abruptly released his death-grip on the punk's nearly crushed hand.

But before the enforcer could do anything, he was grabbed again, this time around the throat, and was easily lifted inthe air like he weighed nothing.

A look of astonished panic appeared on the enforcer's face as he began making choking sounds. Of course he tried to struggle loose, but to no avail.The dark brown coated man seemed to be amused as he began laughing out loud, a cold-sounding mocking chortle.

End Chapter 4 Preview

Author's Notes:  
Well, I'm back, after a disgustingly long absence. Decided to put up this little preview to let you all know the story's not dead and neither am I. Expect the full version of Chapter 4 to be up...soon, I hope. :-D


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